Corruption
by auriellis
Summary: The dark sequel to Repression. Harley Quinn is injured and the Joker leaves her in the care of an old friend. But without the controlling hand of her lover, Harley begins to see her life in a different way. Nolanverse. Rated M for a reason. Joker/Harley
1. Losing Control

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**A/N: This story is set during Chapter 17 of my story "Repression." If you have not read this story, I highly recommend doing so, to help you understand the origin of my version of Harley Quinn and her twisted relationship with the Joker.**

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><p>Chapter One: Losing Control<p>

The forecast called for a moonless night in Gotham. Business was rarely done at night anymore but when it was, the looming darkness that encapsulated the city was the perfect cover. However, the snow had just started to fall, blanketing the streets in white and creating a strange pink glow in the sky. As the glimmering flakes fell to the ground, they reflected against the unending lights in the city, turning the night to a stunning, perpetual dusk. Harley Quinn looked up to feel the cold snowflakes drop on her bare cheeks, sticking out her tongue to capture a snowflake on her tongue with a smile.

"Isn't Gotham beautiful when it snows?" She said to the empty street, shrugging when she received no reply.

Turning her face back to the entrance of the building and rapping loudly on the door, Harley tipped her head upwards, idly wondering how best to set the structure on fire. She pushed back the thought, knowing Mr. J wouldn't approve of it. It was the first time he'd sent her on a solo mission, and this deal was too important to cancel on account of arson, but she imagined the flame would have been stunning, licking up the side of the building. She could see herself dancing through the fiery ashes of the building, feeling the heat against her skin as embers collapsed and burned. A laugh bubbled up from her as she shook her head. No, Mr. J wouldn't approve at all.

Unlike her boss, her lover, she didn't feel the need to dress in uniform every time she went out, not that she was allowed out often. Harley Quinn didn't need an iconic image to intimidate. Despite her public persona of extreme violence and destruction, amongst the criminal circles, she was just another piece of ass, a woman to be used and eventually discarded. It was one of her best qualities, Mr. J had said, to be both dangerous and underestimated. Tonight would be no different. Her clothing was basic black, concealing the repugnance of her battered and scarred body from prying eyes. An ankle-length trench coat covered her tight-fitted clothing, turtleneck, pants, gloves and her long bleach blond locks were pulled into a ponytail that sat loosely at the nape of her neck. Harmless to the casual eye.

The door opened and a balding man poked his head out, "You Harley Quinn?"

"No, I'm your mom," she retorted, snidely, shifting a heavy briefcase from hand to the other. "Now let me in. It's fucking cold out here."

Baldy stepped aside, waving a hand to the interior in permission. She had no doubt he was checking her out as she passed, her hips swaying sensually with each step. Just another piece of ass, she reminded herself. No danger here. Another out of the blue laugh escaped her lips, making the doorman pause to stare at her. The look on his face saying that he wondered about her sanity. She could prove him right by gouging out his eyes but she refrained for the time being, remembering Mr. J's warnings as she left. Harley did not want to go through his punishments again. The moron didn't know how lucky he was.

The entrance led to a good sized warehouse floor, large painted pillars floating upwards to connect with the metal girders at the roof. Brightly lit, fluorescents hanging from the rafters. A large 18-wheeler truck cab was in the corner near a loading dock, dry. No snow. It had been here awhile. Pallets of what she was assumed were auto parts or truck parts had been lined up in a pattern around the room, some labeled with names of people, likely workers unassociated with the gentlemen she was here to meet.

Four men stood by a large desk towards the back, talking amongst themselves, only looking up when her boot made a squeaking noise against the floor, tiny amounts of water dripping from the soles, melted snow. Baldy was right behind her, she noticed when her head turned. That made five. Her eyes cautiously looked around for any sounds or signs that anyone else was present but nothing caught her eye, so she leveled her eyes on the men in front of her.

It was obvious who was in charge of the group when he looked her over, as if appraising her value. "Ah, Harley Quinn, welcome," he said, with the hint of an Italian accent. His dark hair was greased back and he had the olive complexion of someone of true Italian descent. An air of cologne came off him, musky and foul to her nose. He was stocky, some added girth around his waist, a glimpse of an expensive watch glinting from under the cuff of his expensive three-piece suit. It was clearly handmade just for him as it looked fantastic on his frame. The man had style, she had to give him that.

"Thank you," she said, smiling pleasantly to him. The other men in the room were not dressed as well. Suits bought off the rack, signs of thugs. Lower paid lackeys. They were at ease, currently, not seeing a threat in her, but she knew if she exhibited any of her usual behavior, they would have no problem dropping her.

"You got the information?" She addressed the stocky man in charge.

"So rude," Stocky said, shaking his head. "You didn't ask for an introduction to me or any of my boys. Women, these days." The boys laughed with him as he leaned down onto the desk, grabbing a small flash drive off the desk, waving it at her before putting it back down.

"Names get people in trouble," Harley said, ignoring the sexist remark and walking over to the desk. "That way, in the case a certain Bat swoops in, I can't identify you." It sounded logical enough to her. Honestly, she just didn't care who these guys were. Mob was mob. They were all the same worthless stains of existence, only useful from time to time.

"You're a smart girl," he looked over to his guys. "I heard she was smart. Carmine speaks highly of her."

Placing the briefcase onto the desk, she smiled. Dr. Harleen Quinzel had been Carmine Falcone's psychiatrist after a run in with the Scarecrow created a schism in his mind, a psychotic break that was fear-based. Suffering hallucinations and night terrors, he was near catatonic when she first started treatment with him, whispering the name of his tormentor. But slowly over time, due to a lot of medication, his mind began to repair itself. She found she liked the old man. His demeanor and brutal honesty reminded her a lot of her father.

"How is Mr. Falcone doing?" Harley asked sincerely, opening the briefcase to reveal stacks of twenties and hundreds inside.

Stocky leaned down to pick up a stack, looking through to assess its validity. "He's doing good. Enjoying rebuilding the business, I think, now that he's out." Carmine had escaped during the riot that was created in her honor, a distraction for Mr. J to free her from the lie she had once lived.

"Are you related to him?" Always good to know who she was dealing with.

"No, just another businessman looking for opportunity," he replied.

"And he certainly offers that." She leaned against the side of the desk. "Let him know if he has any Scarecrow problems in the future, he can contact me." Harley licked her lips, remembering the night of the riot. The way Crane's blood trickled down his pretty boy face as she cut into him. He had screamed oh so beautifully, a hidden opera singer within, belting an aria of pain. "I'd love to help out with that particular problem."

"I will," he had stopped looking at the bills and instead was watching her, interested, as her energy changed. Her smile had changed from business to near predatory as she entertained the thoughts of what she could do to Crane should they cross paths again. Her movements became more fluid, her eyes flashing to yet another emotion, unable to stop. The desire to inflict pain, create suffering was nearly overwhelming. Almost enough to break the leash that Mr. J had on her.

Her lion was coming out, but Stocky wasn't scared in the least. Instead, his eyes began to match hers, his own predator resonating behind the cool businessman exterior. Not as fierce or uncontrolled as hers but it was there, waiting to strike. Harley should have seen this coming and mentally berated herself for losing herself in her thoughts again, knowing all too well that her own desires could bring out the dark urges in others, like moths to flame. He would burn if he stood too close to her, but Stocky didn't know that. He merely liked what he saw in her and wanted to consume it. Harley could see it in his eyes.

"This isn't enough," Stocky said, dropping the bills on top of the briefcase. He hadn't counted, they both knew that. Wanting something more, he nodded behind her and she felt Baldy grab her arms tightly, forcing her wrists behind her and twisting her arms to near unnatural angles.

"It's what our bosses agreed on," she insisted, not feeling an ounce of fear, her energy changing again. The dull pain caused by Baldy's rough treatment was pleasant enough, causing her breath to hitch. "Don't do this," Harley said, trying to hold on to the last ounce of Mr. J's control of her, knowing that the moment she gave in to her insatiable desires, she would be taking so many steps back in her training.

Stocky took a step towards her, a hungry smile crossing his lips. "Things change and I want a little more."

Baldy's hands squeezed her arms again, making her gasp as the pain hit her pleasure centers. She gave up, letting her instincts take over, no longer caring about the repercussions of her actions. The metaphorical collar around her throat was removed and Harley reveled in her emotions, her urges, wanting everything all at once. Her eyes flashed to lust as she twisted her head to look at the bald man holding her. "Not nearly tight enough, there, tiger. I can still feel my hands."

"Oh, so you like it rough," Stocky said, reaching forward to touch the side of her face.

Harley turned her eyes back to him, feeling her body tingle with delight. "Do you know why Mr. J keeps me around?" She pulled away from Baldy, just a little, to get closer to Stocky, her voice a sweet siren of passion. "I'm a complete nympho. Anytime, anywhere, any position." A knowing smile creeped onto her lips as he nodded to Baldy. The grip released from her arms. Time to play with her meal.

She sat on the desk, spreading her legs in invitation, crooking her gloved finger to Stocky. The lackeys watched as their boss accepted, moving into position between her legs. Her lips automatically going for his ear as her hands roamed his chest and sides. "I will make you scream for me to stop."

Harley couldn't stop the smile that spread across her lips as she grazed the hard mass at his belt. She licked his ear, making him moan against her cheek as she grasped the one thing she needed, pulling it out of his pants, swiftly. He gasped as she yanked but she quickly silenced him with a hard kiss, grasping his head, roughly, with her free hand, preventing him from crying out. Her eyes never closed, instead, seeking out the very excited eyes of his boys. Baldy wasn't in her line of vision.

It happened in the blink of an eye. The kiss, the look to the boys, and her firing three quick shots into the lackeys, from the gun she took from Stocky's belt. He pulled away from her roughly, only to have her clock him on the side of the head with his own gun. He went down, unconscious, leaving her body exposed to the one enemy still standing.

Without hesitation, Harley rolled backwards, across the width of the desk to land behind it as gunshots followed her motions, clipping the top of the desk where she had been. Baldy was certainly quick on the draw. Four down, one to go. Having assessed her surroundings, she swiftly moved behind a large pallet before Baldy could get another shot off. It took everything inside of her to stop herself from laughing with her excitement. The night was turning out to be far more entertaining than she could have dreamed.

She could hear Baldy's heavy breathing. He was out of shape and clearly a heavy smoker. His light wheezing was booming in the silence of the warehouse. Quietly, stalking around her pallet to another one, she listened for him and his location. A deadly game of hide and seek. Not too far away from her. Too close for comfort. Carefully, she slid between two pallets and crouched down, hoping the darkness of her clothing would blend into the shadows between the large objects.

A moment passed and she saw his foot come into view. Harley breathed lightly, preparing herself to move quickly out of the way if she was discovered, all her weight pressed onto one foot. But Baldy walked right past her hiding spot without even so much as scanning between the pallets. Carmine really had to get some smarter lower-tier lackeys if he wanted to stay in the game. Flowing with assassin stealth, she came up behind Baldy. She had no intention of shooting him. Up close and personal this time. Her hand dug into the pocket of her trench coat, pulling a blade. The anticipation was building up inside of her as she crept towards his figure.

Her boot squeaked on the floor again.

Time stood still for her as she watched him turn. Both their guns came up at the same time. A standoff as they stared at each other. Baldy was sweating, nervous. She was smiling, entertained. "First time a girl ever got the drop on you?" she asked him, a taunt in her voice.

Baldy sneered, his voice gruff. "I've still got a gun pointed at your head."

"Not for long." And she gave him the most unnerving smile she could muster. The one that set Gotham aflame when she tortured the police commissioner's wife on camera two months ago. Nothing natural about it.

For a moment, nothing happened as Harley continued to grin wildly at Baldy, but after a moment, she saw her opening. His arm drifted slightly to the left, no longer aimed directly at her heart. If his finger twitched, it would no longer be a fatal shot. Without hesitation, she squeezed her trigger. His body dropped like a stone in water, no jerking finger on his own trigger, creating a sense of relief and disappointment inside of her. It'd be so long since she last felt the harsh agony of a bullet inside her but she also knew that Mr. J would be pissed at her if she got herself shot.

Crouching down, she picked up Baldy's weapon, tossing the other one aside, and sauntered back to the Stocky, who was just beginning to regain consciousness. She snatched the flash drive from the desk, tucking it into her pocket and sat back down on the desk above him, right where he last saw her, aiming the gun at his head. His eyes cracked open and after the usual minute or so of confusion, he glared at her.

"See, now, this is what I don't get," she said, amiably. "Your boss and my boss make a deal. And then you try to change it, why? I know my tits are spectacular but, seriously, are they worth your life?" She pushed off the desk, keeping him in the sights of her gun. "I'm not just any girl, you know. I belong to Mr. J and he's a very possessive man. Imagine what he'd do to you if he found out what you tried."

A groan from the floor next to her feet made her pause, seeing one of the lackeys moving slightly in a pool of his own blood. Tilting her head to watch the motion, Harley idly wondered how long the goon would live with the gaping wound in his upper chest, piercing the lung. His ragged breathing, gasping, brought her a sense of joy, like staring at a beautiful piece of art. But her impatience took over and she shot in him the head, the loud crack of gunfire whipping through the air. With practiced motion, she did the same to the other two lackeys near her feet, just in case.

"How rude. I hate being interrupted. Where was I? Oh yes. Of course. Mr. J." She glanced down to see the open briefcase on the floor, stacks of bills scattered around it from when it fell off the desk. "But I'm not going to tell him what you did, sweetheart, because your inability to keep it in your pants allowed me to have a hell of a good time." She waved the gun towards the cash on the ground. "Now go, take the money, and tell Carmine I said hi."

His glare never wavered off her. "You think I'm scared of you or that clown freak that you fuck?" His accent became more prominent as he sat up.

Harley laughed, the shrill noise echoing through the warehouse. "You're a fool if you're not. Don't think for one second that I wouldn't flay the skin from your body" To emphasise her point, she waved the knife in her left hand. "One tiny strip at a time, your screams only exciting me further as you beg for death. I could pluck those pretty eyeballs out of your sockets, watching the tiny trickles of blood stream down your fat cheeks. And that 'clown freak I fuck' would watch, laughing with me the entire time, as you plead for your pathetic existence."

"You're one fucking crazy bitch" Stocky said. She continued to keep her gun trained on him as he stood fluidly, dusting off his suit in the classy way that only Europeans could pull off.

"I'm not crazy," she said. Her finger squeezed the trigger a final time, a mark appearing in the center of his forehead. His face betrayed no surprise, merely a sneer of superiority, as his body collapsed to the concrete of the warehouse floor.

"I'm free," she said to the corpse, laying the borrowed weapon on the desk with a sigh.

The sound of someone clapping ripped through the warehouse, followed by a distorted, twisted laugh. A sound that tightened her body and made her smile, despite herself. Harley wanted to be pissed, wanted to scream at him for not trusting her to handle the transaction on her own. But the laughter that never seemed to end as it floated through the warehouse space filled her with a sense of peace.

"A wonderful show, Harley," Mr. J said, as he stepped into her view, the greasepaint of his makeup reflecting against the florescent lighting of the room. The painted red smear that followed the lines of his Glasgow smile only emphasized his frown more. "But you lost control."

His rough voice didn't betray any anger, but she could see it behind his eyes, as he stepped closer to her, moving around the bodies and blood that littered the otherwise pristine floor. The sweep of his purple coat, the fluid nature of his movements reminded her of a shark as it scented blood. Danger, destruction, all part of his very core. Harley loved it all.

"So you would rather I had let them fuck me?" she asked, casually, as he moved within arm's reach of her. She lifted her chin to look him in the eyes, ignoring his mask of war, the black, red, and white, seeing past it all. "Let them run their hands all over my body? Feel my scars, break me, use me?" Harley felt the lust rise in her, taking a step forward to grasp Mr. J's vest. "I would kill a thousand men to ensure only you can touch me."

He lifted his own hand, covered in a purple glove, lightly stroking her face. "I know you would, Harley," he said, his fingers lowering to her neck. "But it never should have gotten to that point." The uncaged predator inside of him took hold, suddenly, as he grabbed her by her throat and pushing her backwards until the desk stopped the momentum. She expected him to squeeze, but he merely held her there, picking up the gun she left on the desk, pointing it at her head.

"You lost control," Mr. J repeated, pushing the heated metal against her cheek, still warm from her last kill.

Beyond the point of no return, their fates intrinsically linked. Mr. J could easily kill her right now and be done with her. And just as easy, she could take the blade that still rested in her left hand and stab him in the heart. No second thoughts by either. No regrets. A deadly dance that both of them enjoyed, wondering if the other would take it to the next level. But the truth was that neither of them could ever kill the other. Not because of love or trust, but because the empty place, left by the death of the other, could never be filled by anyone else. And they both knew it.

Their eyes met, the spark of excitement coursing through both of them. With a smile, she twisted her head so the heated barrel of the gun touched her lips. Not hot enough to burn, just a slight discomfort that sent a shudder through her body. Not looking away from Mr. J, her tongue darted out the lick the hard metal, tasting the sulfur and oil that coated its surface. Harley pushed against his hand at her throat to take the rough cylinder into her mouth, fervidly, licking up and down its jagged surface, sensually. She observed his gaze drop to her lips as she sucked the barrel into her mouth fully. One small jerk of his finger and her brain matter would be dripping off the pallets, but that possibility only added to the eroticism of the moment.

"Christ, Harley," he said, a fever in his eyes as he sighed her name, his hand releasing its grip on her neck. "What am I going to do with you?"

She pulled away from the gun, licking her lips, the foul taste of gun oil. "Whatever you want, Mr. J."

Dropping the gun back on the desk, he stepped back from her, extending his gloved hand to her. Without hesitation, she took his hand. With careful steps around the slowly expanding pools blood, he led her back to the entrance. "You will not be eating tonight," he said.

Her punishment, Harley knew. As soon as the words left his lips, she felt her hunger rise, stomach rumbling. Damn him. He knew all too well how to manipulate her and make her suffer. She looked over at him with doe eyes, innocent and wide, hoping to change his mind. "But Mr. J…"

"You heard me," he said, cutting her off. "Be lucky that's it. Or did you want to spend more time in the basement?"

"No," she said, quickly, looking down at the floor as he opened the door. Playing the submissive for him, as he needed her to be. Harley was an alpha female, no doubt, but she would always bow down before him, her savior. Once upon a time, her life had been about control, to prevent her from going off the deep end, from enjoying her destructive impulses. She was the embodiment of the psychological concept of the id. The part of the human mind that is ruled completely by instinct and desire. And her iron clad lock on her mind started to fade the moment she met Mr. J.

He offered her a better way, a better life. No more waking up in the middle of the night, hearing the screams of the innocent people she sent to their graves. No more worrying each day that she would lose control and go on a rampage that would destroy her soul. He offered her the control she needed, to stop her when she couldn't stop herself. With his grip firmly around her mind, she could let go of it all, and simply float on the ocean of existence, tethered only to him. Harley loved him for it. And she also hated him because her myriad of emotions wanted to lash out without his interference.

Rock and a hard place. Her head was a brutal place to exist.

As he sauntered out the door, she followed, the cold blast of air hitting her face and chilling her to the core. "I wouldn't worry about what happened, Mr. J," she said. "We got what we needed."

Mr. J stopped, looking around, holding a hand up to her to indicate silence. Harley became instantly alert, glancing around her. Mr. J was right. The night was too quiet. The taste in the air didn't feel right. Someone was watching them. Someone with malicious intent.

A movement from the corner of her eye was the only warning she got. For reasons she didn't entirely understand herself, she flung her body in front of Mr. J, shielding him from whoever waited in the dark. A gunshot rang out, the crack echoing against the surrounding buildings. Delectable agony flooded through her and Harley looked down to its source. Below the edge of her belt, above her bikini line. Blood flowed out of her, dripping from her lower stomach onto the whitened sidewalk. The red made a pretty design as it expanded, euphoria filling her as the intensity of the pain wracked her body with pleasure.

Harley smiled and looked up to the shooter, not quite seeing a face as her vision blurred. "God, aren't you're a crap shot," she said and laughed, the sound muffled to her ears.

A second later, she collapsed to the pavement.

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><p><strong>AN: If you have read my first story "Repression", this story is set after the shooting of Barbara Gordon but before Harley is sent to Arkham. If you have any questions, comments, or feedback, please review. Thanks!**


	2. Two Docs

**A/N: A big thank you to all my reviewers. This time out, I will not be sending PMs replies to those who review. I don't want to clog anyone's inbox. But please know that I greatly appreciate the support you've given me. It inspires me to write on days when I feel like slacking off. If you have a private question or something you'd like to discuss, feel free to send me a note. I'm more than happy to talk about this story with any of you. And now on to Chapter 2. **

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><p>Chapter Two: Two Docs<p>

Mr. J was facing the opposite direction when the shot penetrated the night. It took approximately half a second to turn, another half a second to draw his own weapon. One more second to locate the target and half a second to aim. Two and half seconds all together. Enough time for the assassin to start running. Tracking the shadowy figure, he fired off two rounds. First one, miss. Second one, hit. Only a clip, though. Upper left tricep, before the gunman was safe behind the cover of a building.

The distance was great enough that following would be pointless and Mr. J didn't believe in pointless endeavors. The gunman would be hunted down in the future. Instead, he turned his attentions to his moaning companion, her body gracefully splayed out face first on the sidewalk, a puddle of blood increasing beneath her. Still alive and conscious. Only a moment of hesitation, decision, before he crouched down, turning her over. Too much investment to let her die now. A small amount of blood gathered on her forehead. Head wound from the fall. Bullet inside her gut, twisting into her intestines.

"Nothing but trouble," he said to her, unbuckling her belt, and unzipping her pants. Gently, he peeled the material away from the damaged area, his body sheltering her bare skin from the falling snow. Blood gushed out from the tiny hole. Too deep for his skills.

Her lips were turned up in a smile. Enjoying the sensations that wracked her body, no doubt. "Sorry, Mr. J." Her voice was weak as her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. A quick slap to her face stopped her from losing consciousness. "Again," she murmured, always wanting more pain from his hand. It almost made him smile.

A tug at his tie, slipping it from around his neck. He pressed the fabric against the wound, harshly, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her. Wouldn't stop but would slow down the bleeding. Too much blood for a normal entry wound with no exit. Time was of the essence. His other hand reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Pushing one button, he put it to his ear.

"What?" A surly male voice answered.

"Bring the car around," Mr. J said and put the phone back into his pocket.

Waiting for the car, he looked down at his lover, the bliss on her face clear. She was right. The assassin was a crap shot. Or it was an intentional miss. The trajectory of the bullet was too low. Thinking back. He heard the crunch of her boots shift right before the shot. Harley had moved to block him from the gunman. No time for the gunman to adjust. Which meant the bullet was meant for him. Based on the height difference between Harley and himself, and the angle, the bullet was intended to hit Mr. J in the femoral artery. Or again, a crap shot. Either way, an insult.

Another thought clicked. "You took a bullet for me, Harley."

"Worth it," she whispered, shaking, as he pushed down against her wound again.

Pride swelled within him at his success. The disappointment from her loss of control faded within him. Harley's sense of self-preservation was skewed when it came to receiving pain, a problem when she was truly injured by his hand. Times when he went too far and she couldn't, wouldn't stop him. Nights when she couldn't move, yet begged for more. This was different, though. She moved in front of him out of instinct. Not because she knew she would receive pain, but because she wanted to prevent him harm. He couldn't have been more pleased with her progress.

An inconspicuous silver Ford Taurus pulled up, a tinted window lowering. Mr. J looked up. "Help me get her in the car."

The driver's side door open and a man stepped out. Larger framed, but not fat. The body of a football player and a constant smirk on the face, of confidence and self-loathing. Brown hair, wide cheeks, he looked smarmy, oily, as if lies were his trade. Went by the name of Doc. Not a medical doctor, even though he loved to play with scalpels and needles. Doc rounded the front of the vehicle, a sneer forming as he looked down at Harley.

"Barbie fucked up the job?" Doc asked, grabbing her upper body. "What a surprise."

Mr. J ignored the comment, lifting her legs, careful not to let the tie fall to the ground. Together, they easily maneuvered her body into the backseat of the Taurus. Not the first time, not the last. So many bodies. Mr. J slid in under her legs to keep pressure on the wound. "Gotham Memorial," he instructed as Doc slid back into the driver's seat.

The car lurched forward. Doc fumbled with a pack of cigarettes, completely unconcerned with the unplowed surfaces the car was gliding across. "You know, Gotham General would have been closer if someone hadn't blown it up," Doc commented, snidely.

"Just shut up and drive."

Doc was another reward from Arkham. In the rare times that Mr. J was allowed to roam freely amongst the inmates, he found himself drawn to the paranoid covert schizoid that watched everyone carefully. Doc had been a patient in Arkham for years, convinced that Dr. Joan Leland was in love with him, seeing signs where there were none. His actual doctor had been Jonathan Crane, a pairing that had some unfortunate side effects on his mental state. His paranoia had only been a minor side effect of his official diagnosed disease of Schizoid Personality Disorder. And then the experiments with Crane made him experience his worst fears over and over, eventually devolving him into a state of constant concern that aliens were coming to abduct him.

Directing the paranoia and fantasies of vengeance towards his own goals, Mr. J found an ally in Doc, a creative force that when pushed could design extremely original and horrific games for the citizens of Gotham to play. Patience was required, though, as Doc was bitterly sarcastic and drank far too much. But it was worth the intense devotion that Doc showed towards the work. He understood, even if it was for the wrong reasons. It put Doc on the very short list of people that Mr. J would only kill if absolutely necessary.

Pulling out his cell phone again, trying not to move Harley too much, Mr. J did a quick web search to locate a phone number and dialed it."GCN," a woman answered.

All calls were recorded for the station. A useful tool. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. Enough to get the panic going. "I've given Gotham more than enough time to ask the right questions. To demand the truth. Have my previous messages not made it clear enough? You can't believe the lies of your leaders anymore."

The woman on the other end yelped in surprise, recognizing the voice instantly, as anyone from the city would. He smiled, looking down at Harley, knowing she would be loving this if she were more aware. "Perhaps it's time for a larger demonstration. The innocent people of Gotham are back in the game. If Police Commissioner Gordon doesn't expose his hypocrisy in the next hour, then the bomb I've placed in a patient at Gotham Memorial will explode. Tick tock." Mr. J hung up without another word, then called another number immediately.

Without waiting for a response when the line picked up, he simply said, "Slaughterhouse, ten." And he hung up again, putting the phone back in his pocket.

As Doc drove past the Emergency entrance, Mr. J observed the chaos from his tinted window. Cop cars everywhere, citizens lined up behind makeshift police barriers. A perfect recipe for bedlam and panic. Enough to slip in unnoticed. The Taurus came to a halt in an alley, near the door of an employee entrance that was rarely used and little known, even by the staff. A minute of waiting before another car pulled up next to theirs and Doc lowered his window to accept a package from the contact, handing it back to Mr. J. Ten minutes on the dot as ordered. The other car disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

Exiting the vehicle, sliding Harley's body out, Doc wrapped his arm around her to keep her upright as Mr. J opened the package, unfurling the doctor's coat, security badge, surgical mask and cap. Blending in was an art. Too many were baffled by Mr. J's ability to always be one step ahead, always be where he wanted to be, with escape plans and grenades. All in the details. Countless hours of studying the city, habits, faults, flaws, floor plans of major buildings. It took ten thousand hours to become an expert in something and Mr. J had a lot of spare time.

"Stay here and keep pressure on the wound," he instructed Doc, before sliding the security badge over the reader. The door clicked open and he strode through the hospital as if he owned it. Right now, he did. No one gave the white coat another glance, not seeing the white makeup or black eyes that hid behind the mask. No questions. People in a panic only saw what they expected, and panic was in an abundance tonight.

Moving swiftly past the hordes of people, their mewling terror like a symphony, Mr. J located an empty gurney and wheeled it back to the employee entrance. Once Harley was secure, and Doc was given his new instructions, he pushed the gurney towards the surgical department. Most of the offices were vacated, either from fear or to assist in the futile search for the bomb. Passing the empty rooms, Mr. J began to formulate a plan to locate a competent surgeon amongst the chaos. Then he saw the silhouette shadowed against the windows of one office, pacing. A glance at the name on the door. The coincidence would have made Mr. J laugh, if it wasn't so vital to stay incognito. Dr. Thomas Elliot. Harley's old chum from med school.

He pushed open the office door, startling the young surgeon. Before Thomas could speak, Mr. J pulled out a gun, pointing it at his chest. "So this is how this is going to go. My girl outside has a bullet in her, and you're going to remove it. Any attempts, any signals for help and you'll have a matching bullet inside you. Clear?"

Dr. Elliot nodded his understanding, his posture indicating that he knew exactly who stood in front of him. Mr. J smiled behind his mask. "Good. Now lead the way." He waved the gun towards the open door.

Studying him, Mr. J wondered why Harleen Quinzel had befriended him during her time in medical school. Natural red hair, blue eyes, handsome. Inherited wealth, dead parents. Didn't wear his wealth on him, though. Common scrubs, no jewelry or watches. Office didn't show signs of favoritism for another of Gotham's elite. Same size as the rest. No photos of the dead relatives on the desk, no love lost for the deceased. Interesting, considering the family name and success. Medical books lined the shelves and several works by Aristotle. A philosopher at heart. Or pretentious.

Calm, collected, though. Dr. Elliot was not in a panic despite his situation. Almost comfortable with the gun pointed at him. An unusual reaction. Nerves of steel or a regular occurrence. Thomas favored his right leg as he walked to the gurney. Knee injury, healing. Lending credence to the regular occurrence theory. The surgeon leaned over Harley, pulling the tie off the wound to view it. Clinical, even though he must have recognized his old friend laying there. Detached. Able to push away emotional responses, a rare ability for most. Elliot's disconnection had roots from his past. The appeal became clear. The ever so controlled Harleen Quinzel would have sought a bond with someone similar to herself. No concern for an emotional association with him. Safe.

Mr. J slid the gun into the white pocket of his coat, continuing to aim it through the material. "Diagnosis, Tommy-boy?"

Thomas scrutinized the wound, speaking as if he was alone with a recorder. "Bullet has pierced the patient's intestines on the left side. Depth unknown. May have penetrated further to an ovary. Exploratory surgery will be needed to verify damage post initial removal. Blood loss indicates the bullet has nicked the iliac artery but not fully broken through." Without another word, he began to push the gurney down the brightly lit halls, following the signs that directed them towards Operating Rooms 5-10.

"These rooms are only used for scheduled surgeries," Thomas said as he pushed the gurney into O.R. 9. "Utilized mostly during the daytime. We shouldn't be disturbed. I need your assistance to get her on the table."

Cooperation was inevitable. The surgeon would aid the girl, the old friend. The threat was clear, the gun no longer needed to maintain control. The sheets under Harley allowed for effortless transport to the operating table. Her face grew paler with each passing second, passing in and out of consciousness. Knowing time was more important than insurance liability, Dr. Elliot skipped many steps in usual procedure, only putting on the face mask and disinfecting his hands before slipping on gloves.

Gathering equipment together. "You'll need to act as nurse," he said to Mr. J, remaining cool and collected. "Think you can handle that?"

"I've done it before," Mr. J responded, amusement in his voice.

A needle in hand, Thomas leaned down, pulling up the sleeve of Harley's left arm. He said nothing as he saw the long scar that ran the length of her wrist but the tension that tightened his muscles made his surprise evident to Mr. J. The old scar. Her old life. Not a tale she would have ever told Thomas. A breaking of skin as the needle slid in. "Harleen, I need you to count down from ten," he said.

"Ten," she whispered. "Nine." And she was out fully.

The doctor gave no care for her modesty, pulling her shirt up to her bra line, yanking her pants further down, away from the wound. Again he paused, seeing the bruises, the old scars across her midriff, the recent cuts. His anger flowed through the room. Yet he said nothing to Mr. J, focusing on the task at hand. A swift swab across the affected area to clean. Harley was ready for surgery.

"Scalpel," Thomas held his hand out.

The doctor worked quickly, with precision, only speaking when requesting something of his makeshift nurse. His eye never wavered off the goal, his hand steady, his breaths even. He lived this life, the exploration of the internal body. Knew every system, every organ as if raised with them. Mr. J observed his motions with sick fascination. The doctor who could perform miracles, saving the upper mobility of the commissioner's wife. She would never walk again but the intention was full body paralysis. Maybe he should have let Harley take the shot. Off by one vertebrae.

The clink of the bullet into the metal pan. A .38. Mr. J had figured based on the lack of an exit wound and the size of the entry. Not used often when going for a killing blow. So the assassin wasn't really an assassin. There was purpose, intention, behind the shooting. If the bullet had hit Mr. J instead, the bleeding would have been severe, enough to die, but slowly. Harley's medical knowledge would have slowed it down further to gain repair. And her mind would turn to the one man she knew to assist. Dr. Thomas Elliot. It all led back to him.

This bothered Mr. J and the connections began to form in his mind.

His cell rang. Answering. "What's the word, Doc?"

Thomas looked up. Mr. J waved his hand dismissively. "Not you, doc. My Doc."

Doc's voice sounded confused. "What, boss?"

"Never you mind. Where are we?"

"No press conference. No announcement. It's been one hour precisely," Doc said.

Mr. J smiled, removing the mask from his face. "Good. Bring the car back around." Hanging up the phone, he glanced over to Dr. Elliot. "Time's up."

"I'm not finished," Thomas answered.

"Then we'll have to take this surgery to go." Mr J fiddled with the number pad on his phone. "Grab what you need to finish."

"Why?"

Mr. J pressed one final button and hit send. Two seconds later, the room shook, a loud boom heard through the door. "That's why." He pointed his gun at Dr. Elliot. "Now, get a move on."

"What the hell did you just do?" Thomas demanded, placing padding on Harley's wound so she could be transported.

"Exactly what I said I'd do. I don't lie when I make threats. All of Gotham should know that by now."

"So you created a panic to get yourself in here undetected and then blew up a patient as a smoke screen for your escape?" Thomas moved around the room, placing various medical equipment inside a bag. "'No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.'" A mutter but in the silence of the room, the words were clear.

"Indeed," Mr. J said. "Aristotle was right about so many things. Such as the secret to humor being surprise."

"There's nothing funny about what you just did."

"It's hilarious. I'm sure the people on the third floor would agree if they were alive."

"You're-" Thomas began.

"Tsk tsk Tommy-boy," Mr. J waved the gun at him. "You don't want to say anything you'd regret right now. I don't want to find a new doctor but I will if you make me."

Dr. Elliot wisely kept his mouth shut. A few minutes later, they were pushing Harley back out the employee entrance to the waiting Taurus. The hospital, which had been panicked when he first arrived, had turned into a madhouse of screaming, crying people. Music to Mr. J's ears. The damage was extensive, stretching down to the first floor, and likely up to the fifth. But despite the carnage, he felt some disappointment. No sign of the Bat.

Climbing into the backseat next to Harley, propping her legs over his again, Mr. J instructed Doc to drive. Thomas was attempting to stay calm, the bag of supplies clutched tightly in his lap. A look back to his captor. "Where are we going?"

Mysteries to be solved. Connections to be made. So many details. Only one place would yield answers. "You know what they say. There's no place like home." Mr. J's malicious smile turned to the hostage. "I hope you keep your fridge stocked."


	3. Planting Seeds

Chapter Three: Planting Seeds

"-not bad. Not bad at all." The familiar sound of Mr. J's rough voice pinged in her ears. "I guess quality is the real mark of the rich."

Slowly, Harley's eyes fluttered open, attempting to focus. She was groggy, feeling the effects of the drugs in her system. It took her a moment to remember why. The gunshot, Mr. J, the hospital, Thomas. With the memory, the pain came crawling back, settling itself inside, her oldest friend. She could barely contain the pleasure that accompanied it, her body wanting so much more. But she could feel the weakness inside. Too tired, too tender to move, or even lift her head.

"Indeed it is, sir," an unknown voice said, British accent. "Is that all, sir?"

A sound escaped her lips against her will and Mr. J's eyes swung towards her for a moment. Next to him stood the stiff figure of another gentlemen, formal suit, long hair tied back. Looked to be in his forties, regal but something subservient about him. Then his appearance clicked in her mind. It had been years but Geoffrey didn't look much older than she remembered. Thomas' butler. Which meant she was inside Thomas' home. The fog was beginning to clear her mind.

"Yeah, go away," Mr. J said to him, clapping the butler genially on his upper arm. Geoffrey winced at the gesture before scuttling off to his duties.

Stuffing some piece of food in his mouth, Mr. J walked over to her. She tried to smile at him. "Hey there, Mr. J."

He said nothing, chewing as he removed a sheet that lay over her body. Harley was completely naked under the sheet and the realization hit her that she didn't even know what day it was. Same night, next day? She could smell the coppery scent of blood, reeking from the bandage that Mr. J was scanning. Without a word, he scooped her up into his arms, eliciting a squeal of surprise from her. And he was walking her through a door. A bathroom. Suddenly, she felt how full her bladder was. Mr. J knew her needs too well.

He sat her down on the toilet and turned the other way as she did her business, staring at the large shower stall. "Should get us one of these."

The bathroom was a real work of art. The walls an antique green color, splashes of gold leaf design decorating the upper half. The shower stall that had Mr. J's attention was massive, enough for five people to fit in comfortably. Clear glass doors and a beautiful stone motif that made her agree with her lover. A jacuzzi hot tub adjoined it, smaller but two people could easily swim in it. Next to the elegant stand alone sink was a large armoire that likely held towels and other bathroom sundries.

When she finished, she attempted to stand up. Her legs were too weak to support herself, though, and she collapsed back down, relishing the pain that coursed through her. Mr. J turned, with an annoyed look. "Jeesh, Harley. I just got you patched up. You want to break your stitches so soon?"

"Sorry, Mr. J," she said, meekly, wrapping her arms around him as he lifted her up again.

"At least have the courtesy to let me break them."

It made her smile. "I'll be more careful."

Harley was better able to appreciate the bedroom the second time around. Muted yellows swept the room, the matching antique feel from the bathroom with gold script lining the tops of the walls. The ceiling was vaulted into a round, giving a circular feel to the room despite it's square shape. Another armoire against the wall with the door, a rich cherry wood. Matching nightstands on either side of the four poster bed. Walk in closet, bookcases, flat screen TV on the wall, the works. Only a princess was worthy of this room. And that, she was not, in any way.

Mr. J laid her back down in the soft bedding, covering her again like a child before touching her face gently. Even when injured before, he never treated her with any kindness. It was strange, out of character. And extremely suspicious. "What's going on?" she asked with narrowed eyes. "You're never this nice."

Mr. J gazed down at her, the intensity returning, melting her insides. "Can't a guy show some sympathy for his girl?" The dubious look on her face made him laugh. "You got me. I'm only here to verify that you aren't going to keel over and die. That would put a damper on my day, to say the least."

"Wait," Harley said, reading between the lines. "You're leaving me here?"

"You're useless to me right now. And I don't have the time to babysit you."

"I'm not useless," she defended. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

He almost snorted. "You're weak. You won't be able to eat for several days and you'll need constant medical attention. You think I'm going to give it to you? Or Doc? No," he said, with a sweep of his arm. "There is far too much to do to have your dead weight around my neck."

Her temper flared. "My dead weight? Oh, that's rich. May I remind you that your ass would be laying in this bed if it wasn't for me. And you'd probably be acting like a fucking child, wanting me to do everything for you."

His own anger flashed, his face suddenly within an inch of hers. Pain exploded through her body as his hand slipped under the covers, assaulting her wound with ferocity. A spasm ran from head to toe, pupils dilating with lust as she stared up at his fury. Her cries of delight and torment pulsated through the air. Harley found she wanted nothing more than to strip him naked so they could share the experience together. She snatched his hair with one hand, pulling Mr. J down into a fierce kiss, biting at his lower lip playfully.

A loud cough shattered her reverie and Mr. J broke away from her, looking over to the door. Thomas Elliot stood there, obviously trying to hide his revulsion. Harley lifted a hand to wave at him, as if he hadn't interrupted her blissful moment. His reaction amused her.

Mr. J looked back to her. "Now, Tommy-boy, here, as a professional, will look after you while you recover. He's ever so concerned for your well-being so try not to antagonize him. And no killing." He wagged a finger in her face. "Remember what we've been working on and be good."

"I will," she said, knowing she had no choice in the matter, laid up, unable to even work her legs properly. Her despair was undeniable.

He planted a kiss on her forehead and leaned down, his hot breath tickling her ear. Two words whispered from his painted lips. Two words that changed her miserable outlook on her situation. Two words that brought a smile to her lips, no longer bothered by his abandonment of her.

Mr. J winked at her before strolling over to the doctor. "You're a smart guy so I won't repeat the consequences should you decide to play hero."

"Harleen will be well cared for," Thomas said.

Mr. J nodded, brushing past him to exit out the door. No glance back to her, no indication of when he would return for his Harley. It wasn't the first time he left her on her own. It wouldn't be the last. But the small differences spoke volumes to her need for him. The air didn't carry his energy. The sheets were clean, no makeup stains or blood. And the only thing that smelled like him was the smeared red on her lips and forehead from his kisses. Her mind tried to linger on the remaining taste in her mouth, greasepaint and cigarettes. Soon, it would fade. It was all wrong. So wrong.

Her eyes met Thomas' as he moved to her side at the bed. "Thank you," she said, remembering Mr. J's parting whisper to her. "I know you don't want to help but I do appreciate it."

"I would have helped regardless of your boyfriend's threats," Thomas said. "May I take a look?" He nodded to her stomach.

"Of course, Dr. Elliot," she said.

He lowered the sheet down her nude form, exposing her upper body. Discreet, professional, he folded it at her bikini line, not that she cared. Normally, the sight of her scarred body would be the last thing anyone saw, but Mr. J gave tacit permission for this examination when he left her in Thomas' care. It was liberating to have someone else share in her secrets, even if he did not know the story behind her hundreds of scars as Mr. J did.

Thomas' trained eye went directly towards the bandaged area on her lower stomach, crimson oozing through the material due to Mr. J's rough treatment. He lifted the bandage carefully, frowning. "You've broken your stitches."

"I'd say blame the gentleman who just left, but it's not like I tried to stop him."

"I doubt you could," Thomas muttered.

"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of in regards to Mr. J."

"Mr. J," he repeated. "A play on the media's name for him?"

Harley merely smiled. She watched GCN frequently, really only because Mr. J had it on all the time and he went into a rage anytime she took the remote. After her revelation as Harley Quinn, reporters and experts alike questioned whether she knew the true identity of the Joker. They could never understand, just as Thomas could not, that it didn't matter who Mr. J was before he became the shining beacon of hope for Gotham. All that mattered was the moment and how it was expressed.

Thomas secured the bandage again before excusing himself to get his supplies. Immediately bored with the lack of stimulation, Harley glanced around. The remote for the TV sat on the nightstand next to the bed. Smiling to herself like a child about to do something naughty, she grabbed it and waited, half expecting to hear Mr. J's voice screaming at her to put it down. The thought passed and she turned on the TV, flipping immediately to GCN. A comfort.

"-destruction of three floors of Gotham Memorial. Police Commissioner Gordon has been unavailable for comment. In other news, there has been an increase in missing persons reports in the last two weeks-"

Boring. Harley rolled her eyes and switched channels, a giddy delight passing through her as there different images flickered on the screen. She finally settled on the Food Network, some competition show on deserts. The time on the info screen indicated she'd been out for around ten hours. Beyond the darkened curtains, the sun waited. Her stomach growled with hunger, but she knew she would be on a diet of I.V fluids for a few days, at least. Instead of dwelling on the situation, she turned her focus to her pain, enjoying the tiny bit of pleasure it gave her.

When he returned, Thomas dragged an I.V. cart behind him, a bag already attached. "Leftover from my mother," he said, no emotion. He never showed any emotion when talking about his late parents. Harley sensed they had a strained relationship.

"Which arm do you prefer?" he asked.

"Left."

He moved the cart to the other side of the bed, taking out the needle. Harley extended her inner arm to him, again revealing the line of scar tissue that went from wrist to elbow. The cool air that followed him into the room sent shivers up her body and she pulled the sheet back up to cover herself, leaving the arm exposed. "Did Mr. J leave me any clothes?"

"In the armoire. His underling brought a bag in."

Underling. An interesting term to refer to Doc. She would have to remember that for the future. "Oh, okay. Great."

Thomas paused for a moment, holding a rubber tightening strip in his hands, looking down at the hash marks that lined her upper arm. The newest had healed months ago. Mr. J insisted she stopped keeping track of her kills, if only because she'd run out of space on her arm. She would never tell him that she still mentally kept a record. For a time when she might need to remember. A time to mourn the lives taken by her hand.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask. How did you get these scars?" Thomas looked her in the eyes.

Harley looked away, saying nothing. Thomas sighed and continued. "I'm worried about you, Harleen."

"My name is Harley."

"Does it matter what I call you?"

"Not really," she said. "I just prefer Harley these days."

He wrapped the tightener around her upper arm, pulling it to assist with vein locations. "Fine, then. Harley it is. Seriously, though, I expected some damage from your, ah, relationship with the Joker, but not this."

Taking the needle from the I.V., he tapped, locating a vein. He uncapped the needle, placing it against her skin. She watched as it plunged into her skin, missing the vein. A gentle laughter sprung from her at his mistake, his face twisting into a frown. He tried again with no luck. She didn't mind the probing stabs. His failure was going to leave a new set of beautiful bruises up her arm.

"This is why nurses do this shit," she said. "When's the last time you did a tap?"

"Been awhile," he confessed.

"Give me the damn thing." She held her hand out. "I'll do it myself."

Thomas looked at her doubtfully before giving her insistent hand the needle. She closed her eyes, seeking the mental clarity that came with knowledge of her own body. An ability that came with so many years of pain, whether through the sweaty victory of gymnastics, or the crushing blows of her lover. The blood that rushed through her veins became visible in her mind, every inch, every beat of her heart. Everything inside her became clear. There it was, the perfect vein. With her eyes still shut, she pushed the needle in, feeling the tiny prick of pain and a sense of completion.

Harley opened her eyes to see Thomas gaping at her. "That was amazing. How did you do that?"

"Everyone has a gift," she said.

"I suppose so," he said, taping down the needle, releasing the tightener from her upper arm. She didn't watch as he finished the setup, instead focusing on the television, wishing she had one of the pretty cupcakes on the screen. His hands moved to the sheet again, pulling it down. "I have to redo your stitches."

"Sure you don't want me to do them?" She asked, winking. If there was one thing a surgeon could do better than anyone, it was stitches.

He gave her a sardonic smile before pulling a suture kit from his pocket. "Do you remember the time Anderson did his first stitching on a live subject?"

She laughed. "Wow. I'd almost forgotten. He was shaking so badly."

"Someone should have told him to unlock his knees."

"Yeah, passing out your first time is not a good sign for a doctor."

He laughed with her. "And the poor woman he was working on. I thought she was going to scream when he fainted."

This kinship she remembered. Her and Thomas. How many nights had they spend together in a lab, or running rounds at the hospital? They were always on the same shift, guiding and helping each other. He had more skill but she had better bedside manner. They had been a fantastic team for that year, and even before then in medical school. Late nights studying, coffee and conversation. At the time, he knew her better than anyone else, as much as she would allow. But the days of yore could never be recaptured.

Another needle in his grasp. She waved her hand. "I don't want an anesthetic."

"Are you sure?"

"I like the pain."

Thomas quirked an eyebrow at that but didn't comment. After prepping the site and the suture, he leaned down, removing the bloody bandage from her lower stomach. "I saw the video of you torturing Barbara Gordon. I saw the damage, up close, but seeing the video was different."

The suture needle pierced through her skin, a clean pain, sharp. "Your point?"

"I couldn't believe it was really you," he said, the thread following the needle a short distance. "Not the woman I knew. What did the Joker do to you to make you so..." He trailed off, looking for the right word.

"Fun?" Harley supplied the perfect word, laughing at the look of disgust on his face.

"You used to be so compassionate, always wanting to help."

The needle dug in a little harder, maybe his form of punishment. A tingle surged between her legs, but she did her best to ignore it, focusing on the conversation. "What do you want me to say, Thomas? People change. Mr. J may have been the catalyst but this fire burned in me long before him. You think because we spent some time together that you know everything about me?"

"I wouldn't presume," Thomas said. Another strike of the needle. The tugging of the thread.

"There are two types of people in this world," Harley continued. "Those who exist and those who live. Most people just exist, letting the world move around them. They are swept up by the tide, like tiny particles of sand. Their lives mean nothing. They don't contribute anything of lasting value. They are boring, dull."

She bit her lip to keep from moaning after another swipe of the needle. "And then there are those who live. They understand that life is short and not in the cliché way that assholes in Starbucks write about. No, they know, deep inside, that they have to do something, anything to stir up a change. Whether it be the next great piece of literature or shooting the commissioner's wife for all to see."

"That's completed demented."

"Is it really? Think about it. The most well-known names in history have always broken the barrier, looked to make a change, for good or evil, even if they would never see it in their lifetime. They strive to effect those who merely exist, stir them to actually live, even if it's on opposite sides. They have a vision."

"So it's about making history," he said.

"God, no. You're not listening. Legacy means nothing. Mr. J and I could die tomorrow, easily forgotten in a few years, but the fires he stoked while here will burn on. The ideas continue. And even if the idea should die, it won't matter, because we lived, not beholden to anyone's rules but our own. We danced and we played our games for the time we were on this planet. I won't be satisfied just letting the world turn around me. And even it's in a small way, I want to be the one turning the world."

Thomas finished his stitching. "The Joker really did a number on you."

She shrugged. "At least I'm living. Can you say the same?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have an answer for that question. No one ever could. Thomas finished his job and left the room without another word, leaving her alone with a needle in her arm and her thoughts. Harley chuckled to herself. She wasn't even sure she believed whatever it was she just said. But it sounded good. Also a little crazy. But that didn't matter.

It was just the start, the small tendril building while she had unlimited access to her old friend. He would think about what she said, dissect it in a scientific way. Dismiss it, but still, it would be there in the back of his mind. Did Thomas believe he existed? Or did he believe he lived? An infection that would break him slowly even as he fought it. Because deep down, everyone wants to be different than the rest of the sheep in the world.

Flipping off the TV, she closed her eyes, acutely aware of Mr. J's absence, and yet feeling his presence in the room. His two words. The two words that gave her purpose, alleviating the boredom that would have otherwise settled in by now. And instead, Harley began to plan. She felt his whisper again in her ear, the instructions that she would obey with the tenacity of a bulldog. Two words.

"Corrupt him."


	4. Copy Cat

Chapter Four: Copy Cat

Rolling over with his arm stretched, only the cool untouched sheets met his grasp. Bothered. Annoyed. Bereft of her presence. It was strange how acclimated he had become to her, even sleeping on his side of the bed despite her absence. The mattress was new and had never known anything other than her purring snores and depraved demands. The screams, the moans, the whining. Her side buckled inwards, the shape of her. Odd to be tied down to a concept, for Harley was still a work in progress. But for now, Mr. J was unencumbered.

Flipping the sheet off, he immediately headed to the bathroom, catching sight of his makeup caked face in the mirror. After relieving himself, he turned a faucet handle, warm water flowing quickly. A splash to his face, grabbing Harley's facial soap, cleanser, whatever the fuck she called it. The colors mixed in the sink, reflective of his mood. Gray. With the touch of red.

Mind clean, face clean, he ran through the details. The Thomas Elliot affair had been sorted, rather transparent to his keen skills once he evaluated it fully, Harley playing her role. He put it from mind. Gordon. All those deaths at his feet. Time to step up the game. The deceiver, putting lies into the mob. Standing behind the policy of not giving into terrorists. While the hospital thing had been helpful, it was a mere drop in the bucket for what he had planned. No, not planned. Plans always failed. No room for improvisation. Operations, though, were another matter.

Mr. J opened the door to the bedroom and called out for Doc before opening the battered dresser and slipping on a pair of clean boxers. He made a note that he would need to have Doc do some laundry since Harley was gone. Wormed her way into his world. Ingrained. Cooking, cleaning, all the little things. Mr. J was never sure how long the dance would continue between them but so useful, his little harlequin, making life a little easier. Trousers slid on, black, simple, just as Doc appeared at the door.

"What do you want?" Doc was slurring his words.

A quick look at the digital readout on the nightstand told him it was well past drunk-o-clock for Doc. He assessed the man at the door for a moment. Leaned against the doorframe but not for support. Laziness. Holding his liquor fine, despite speech. Still useful. "Call Livingston. We're heading there in an hour. I need the revised specs for the yard. And get me something to eat."

"You didn't eat when you were out?" Doc asked. "I would have grabbed a couple of burgers on site."

"What are you talking about?"

"Inspired," Doc said. "Truly. I almost did the same thing once. Not enough ketchup in my bag. And why can't I order an Egg McMuffin after 10:30am? It's lunacy, I say. Order breakfast when you want!" Doc laughed, the sound almost maniacal. "Won't make that mistake again."

Mr. J frowned and grabbed Doc by his shirt, slamming him into the door. "What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

Doc winced in pain, the alcohol wafting from his breath, stinking up the air around him. "It's all over the news, your killing spree at McDonalds. Fifteen dead. Joker card on scene. Witnesses."

Releasing the drunk, he snatched the remote off the dresser, turning on the TV. GCN flared to life, his message being the top story, as always. No longer the hospital. McDonalds. Only an outside visual of the building as a reporter interviewed a survivor claiming the Joker came in, ordered a chocolate milkshake before gunning down most of the people in the restaurant. Two hours ago. Improbable. His frown deepened. Not his play. Not his style. No point to be made. Confusion, chaos.

Doc smirked, moving next to Mr. J. "I guess you didn't appreciate them asking if you wanted fries with that shake."

"Shut up." Mr. J began to pace the room while watching the story unfold on the television. "I'm not much for sleepwalking," he muttered to himself, as GCN announced they received the feed from the security cameras.

Security footage was blurry, only the first few moments. GCN was discreet as usual, cutting out the carnage, but as stated, the video showed the Joker. Someone had been studying. Mr. J moved closer to the television, staring at the figure before him. The walk, the way the gun was held, near perfection. Looked to be the same model of gun he regularly used. No voice to analyze but he saw the tiny differences. The cut of the suit, not quite right. Pocket watch chain didn't fall correctly on the pants leg. More importantly, the scars. The cut was correct, raised as his, but off, just a bit. The split on the lip was vertical, not the slight diagonal.

"Copy cat," he said.

"Seriously?" Doc asked. "You sure it's not a clone? They can do that you know." His eyes shifted conspiratorially, fear growing behind them. "Make a perfect copy. Then they kill you, take your life over, and soon, it's back to experimenting on poor old Doc. I can't do that again. I can't!" His voice became near hysterical.

From an outside point of view, Doc's condition could be seen with humor, but the terror behind his eyes was real, primal. Crane was quite the craftsman, creating life long delusions in many of his victims. The former psychiatrist had a cell across from his and when he got bored, he'd recount the many fears he invoked, relishing them as a fat man would a steak. Doc was just another victim, caught up in a world that would exploit or mock his weakness. Mr. J almost pitied the cowering man.

Almost.

A crack across Doc's face brought him back to reality. "Grow some balls," Mr. J said. "Just a pretender wanting to capture my glory and failing miserably."

Doc rubbed his cheek before slipping his hand into his pocket, pulling out a flask. A way of coping, liquid courage against his delusions. Drawing on it, he nodded. "But who would ever want to pretend to be you?"

A glare. "Batman has pretenders. Why can't I?" Imitation was the highest form of flattery, it was said. Not imitation, though. Mockery. Had to admire the chaos but no message. Mr. J had flair, style, a way of exposing the truth behind the mask. Contrary to Doc's word, this was uninspired and an insult to his persona. Twice insulted in two days. He pondered at a connection. Further analysis would be needed.

"Call Livingston. We're going as soon as I'm dressed."

He turned, dismissing Doc with a wave. He donned a black button down shirt, combing his hair back into a ponytail while staring at the empty bed. Two pairs of handcuffs dangled from either side of the wrought iron headboard. A necessary addition for Harley's random impulses when he allowed her to sleep in his room instead of the basement. Hope that she would not revert back on her training while she was away. A waste of time to redo. But also hope that she would. Her cursing, crying, and writhing as she was broken down day by day was breathtaking to witness. It was unlikely he would be able to do that with a mind such as hers again.

Tonight would be incognito. No makeup. No purple clothing. Livingston disliked his public persona and he was willing to put it aside for the expertise he needed. Quickly, he moved several blades from his purple trench to his pockets. Ready to move. He bound down the stairs, snatching the sandwich that Doc was about to stuff in his mouth. Doc looked up, angry, likely plotting some form of revenge for the slight. Mr. J grinned before taking a large bite, salami and cheese. He tossed the remaining sandwich back to his lackey and headed to the kitchen. Cereal. The best filler.

"Let's go," he said, pulling a pea coat on, holding the box of cereal in his hand. A gun already in the pocket. Second Amendment. A beautiful thing.

The ride to Livingston's was silent except for a local news station and the loud crunch of dry cereal. Doc's cigarette smoke swirling inside the tight confines of the Taurus. A basic car. Like so many on the road. All vehicles in his arsenal had two things in common. Inconspicuous and tinted windows. Movement was essential and his face was far too recognizable, even without the distinct greasepaint. Disguise was an art that Mr. J took seriously. His last stay at Arkham had been entertaining due to his dance with Harleen Quinzel, but he suspected the next time would not have such a pleasant distraction. Best not to get caught doing something so trivial.

Livingston lived in a posh neighborhood. Expensive, but not as over the top as the Palisades. The apartment was on the top floor, penthouse. No sign of police as he and Doc climbed out of the car. Rarely visible in a neighborhood like this where the biggest crime was the occasional mugging or break in. But cop response time was fast. Too much risk. Mr. J smiled at the doorman as they entered, recognition at the scars. But the doorman was paid handsomely by Livingston, on the side, to keep silent. Greed. It helped sometimes for anonymity.

An elevator ride, instant penthouse access and they were in the receiving room for Livingston. Doc rang the bell, customary, and it wasn't long before a woman wearing a very short black skirt and a World of Warcraft t-shirt appeared. Livingston. First name Kristin but she preferred her professional contacts called her by her last name. Short pink hair tickling her chin, an angled bob, cigarette in hand. Piercings on her lip, multiples lining her ears, poking through the fabric of her tight shirt at her nipples and belly button. Her demeanor, the way she moved, the smell in the air indicated she had just left the arms of a lover, frustrated and unsatisfied. The call must have interrupted her nightly entertainment.

"Sorry about the mess," Livingston said, her voice quiet, polite, as they passed her to enter her apartment which looked like a hurricane passed through. "Next time, would you please give me more notice?"

"Too important to wait," Mr. J said, glancing over at Doc, who in turn was staring at Livingston as if he'd never met her before. Seeing her in a new light. Interesting. Perhaps the two kids could make a go of it and he'd stop sending love letters to Dr. Leland.

Livingston's home was a modern wonder. Large flat screen hooked to the wall, two smaller ones below it for multiple viewing. A bay of computers settled into the back corner, raised high on top of a large corner desk, multiple keyboards, monitors, one large desk chair planted in front of the massive display. The pleasant white noise of all the systems. His technical expert. Open space, kitchen on the right, island, stainless steel appliances, takeout boxes strewn like clothing. Two black couches, a loveseat, and a comfy chair in the center, most facing the televisions.

"No Harley today?" Livingston settled into her desk chair, crossing her legs demurely. Despite her brash outward appearance, she was a reserved, shy woman, spending much of her time in the company of her computers.

"Harley's out of commission for now," Mr. J answered.

"Oh, please don't tell me you broke her," She sounded disappointed. "She's such a sweetheart." Livingston clearly didn't know Harley that well. When Mr. J said nothing, she continued. "So what's so important tonight?"

"You seen the news today?"

"Haven't had the chance to check my news feed yet. Is there a problem?" She turned, flicking on a set of two connected monitors.

"Would I be here if there wasn't?" Mr. J dug through his pockets and tossed her the flash drive Harley had acquired, before sitting down in the comfy chair. "That's the data you requested. Is your lover still here?"

She quirked an eyebrow, always surprised at his powers of observation. "No. I asked her to leave when I got your call. I didn't think you'd want anyone else involved in whatever you came here for."

Doc stilled as she said that. "I, uh, didn't know you were a lesbian."

Mr. J laughed at the awkwardness of Doc. "She's not. Livingston plays for both teams. So cheer up, Doc, you still have a shot."

The enjoyment Mr. J got from the sheer mortification that flushed through the schizoid was almost worth the trip. Doc pulled out his flask, taking another drink while Livingston flipped between windows on her system, poignantly ignoring the conversation, crushing her used cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. The uncomfortable energy of the room. A wonderful thing to invoke. But not the point. Distraction.

"You went on a killing spree at a McDonalds?" Livingston asked, the story up on her left monitor. "Not exactly subtle."

"Not my work," Mr. J said. "Which is why I'm here. Anyone tag you about this?"

"No."

"You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?" Menace in his tone.

Livingston spun in her chair to face him, her eyes going wide, her words fast. "We have an agreement and I would never break that. I owe you too much so I would never lie to you."

Before his fame, he searched out experts in technical matters for the trickier aspects of his work. While many were to be found, Livingston was fresh, only eighteen at the time, and far easier to manipulate to his ends. On the run from her father, an abusive relationship he'd surmised, she was desperate and terrified when Mr. J first flushed her out in Gotham. Her father, the owner of a large insurance corporation, wanted his precious angel back, sending his hounds after her, wherever she went. Livingston was only able to stay ahead of them because of her skills. Mr. J solved her little problem with dear old dad, earning her gratitude and the keys to her father's vast fortune.

Livingston was one of the best in her field. Hacking, electronics, even some demolitions. Mr. J never questioned where she learned her skills, not caring. Her background didn't matter. It was her usefulness that he was concerned with. She did other side jobs for the criminals of Gotham but in a heartbeat, she would drop everything if he called, a debt that would never be repaid in her eyes. Easy prey. Livingston designed the detonators he used in the ferry experiment, the cell phone trigger for both the mad man at the police precinct and the patient in Gotham Memorial. And so much more.

Mr. J nodded. "Can you cleanup the security footage? Get me a better look at the walking dead man pretending to me?" Bone structure could rule out a good number of individuals.

"This isn't a movie," she said, turning back to the monitors. "The only thing you'll get is larger pixelation of his face, not helpful. However, if you like, I can try hacking into police records as they file evidence. See if there is something useful there?" She looked at him in askance.

"Do it. And call me when you get something." Mr. J understood these things took time. Patience, always.

"You got it."

A thought. "Also, I want anything you can find on Dr. Thomas Elliot. Anything." The information had been sorted but background would be useful. Wasteful not to use his best resource.

Livingston paused for a moment, her fingers touching the bridge of her nose, her thinking pose. She knew something, trying to recall it. Then her fingers went to work on her keyboard, eyes squinted, nose scrunched. Files flashing across both screens, faster than he could follow. Finally, the screen stopped on what looked to be an official notice. Too far away to see from his vantage point.

"I knew it!" Livingston exclaimed. "I knew I saw that name in the past week."

"In what regards?"

"Remember how you asked me to keep tabs on personnel, patients, and visitors at Arkham?" She pointed to the screen. "Dr. Thomas Elliot visited a patient last Wednesday."

"Interesting. Which one?"

A few more keystrokes. Livingston read the file as it appeared. "Minimum security. Name of Peyton Riley. Female, age 28. Diagnosed with schizophrenia. Her attending psychiatrist is Dr. Jeremiah Arkham."

"I don't recall meeting her," Mr. J looked over to Doc. "You?"

Doc nodded. "Yeah, I saw her a few times. She's a lifer. Crazy bitch thinks her dolls are alive or something. Never really talked to her."

"Won't have the chance now," Livingston said, looking at another document. "She committed suicide three days ago."

A twist. A good mystery. "Did Elliot visit her at any other time?" Mr. J asked.

She typed furiously, lightning speed. "I'm not seeing any other logs with his name. Could have been deleted but unlikely. There's always a record somewhere. I'll keep checking."

"Good. Include anything you can find on Peyton Riley, coroner's report as well." Mr. J took out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Harley. New details. New connections to be made. A single visit either meant he was requesting something only Peyton Riley could provide, or he knew the girl prior but wanted to keep the relationship secret. Both held interesting possibilities.

"Harley," he said when the line clicked.

"Checking up on me?" Harley's voice sounded tired over the phone, yet still excited to hear his voice. "Careful, don't want people thinking you have a heart or anything."

"No. I have another assignment for you," Mr. J said, a smile crossing his face as he stood, walking over to Livingston. "Tommy-boy had a tete-a-tete with one of Arkham's finest and I want to know everything about it."

"Who?"

"A patient named Peyton Riley."

A pause from her. "Really." Flat tone.

"You know her?" Mr. J looked at the visitor log that Livingston had on the screen. A twenty-three minute visit. A short time span for any visit. Not enough for a heart to heart if they had history.

"Yes, I do." The monotone in her voice was disturbing. Terse, unlike her. Lack of emotion in her was never a good sign. "I'll get back to you."

The line went dead. Mr. J frowned at the phone before slipping it back into his pocket. If she had been in his presence, Harley's face, body posture, would have told him everything he wanted to know. For now, he would accept the lack of insight and trust his girl would succeed in gaining the knowledge he sought. And his frown turned back to a smile. Harley, always the apple that needed more peeling.

"Livingston, also send me anything about Harleen Quinzel's connections to either Thomas Elliot or Peyton Riley.

Better safe than sorry.

* * *

><p>Across the city, Harley pressed the off button on her phone as Thomas entered the room. Snuggled into a comforter, she turned off the blaring television, putting her phone down on the nightstand. A change of the I.V. bag. More nutrients to keep her going. She smiled sweetly at him as he took the bag down, hiding the bitter rage that wanted to consume her.<p>

"So Thomas, why don't you tell me about Peyton Riley."

The silence that greeted her was deafening.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Do you feel the new characters are getting enough depth? I'm trying not to introduce them in one lump sum but unlike "Repression," there is a big world outside of Harley and Mr. J. Let me know! And thank you all for all your support so far!**


	5. Darkness Within

Chapter Five: Darkness Within

_The girl was crying again. It seemed she always cried. The sessions had been of little help to her recovering psychosis. Harleen touched her gently on the arm. A calming gesture that sometimes dried the tears. Peyton looked to her doctor, puffy, red, eyes and nodded, pitifully. Times like this Harleen wished it was appropriate to hug a patient. The poor girl had such a difficult time adjusting, terror sweeping through her constantly._

"_Peyton, it's alright," Harleen said, a soothing tone. "You're safe here now."_

_The wet streaks continued down her gaunt cheeks. "I want to believe you. I really do."_

"_If you like, we can just sit in silence."_

"_No, I want to talk. It's just hard," Peyton said, breathing deep. She was calming down. _

_Peyton Riley was a hard case to have in her lineup. The case file filled with her arrest record, notes from both reliable and unreliable sources. The story the notes told was one of despair. The girl often reminded Harleen of her own past in minor ways. An abusive relationship, scars lining her body from gunshot wounds, knife wounds, beatings. Losing the love of her life. Driven into psychosis. Harleen sympathized more than she could admit. Often times, she wondered if she would have been trapped behind the bars of an Arkham cell had her situation differed slightly._

_It was their third session together. Always hard to switch psychiatrists, but in Peyton's case, it was a necessary change, having been one of Crane's patients. She showed no signs of having been inflicted with his toxin as many of his other patients had, but he certainly didn't work on her condition. There were no videos of their sessions to study, just half-assed notes that made Harleen question whether Crane was writing real observations or just making stuff up for the board. So the sessions were vital to understand the troubled woman and to find the best course of treatment._

"_Why don't we focus on what makes you happy, today." Harleen said. "See if we can find a way to smile through the pain."_

_Peyton nodded, the miserable look almost chiseled on her face. "I love my dolls. They make me happy." _

"_And how do they do that?"  
><em>

"_When they talk to me, they can make me laugh. They tell me jokes and remind me that life isn't so bad."_

"_That's good," Harleen said, taking notes. The talking dolls were a delusion of her schizophrenia, a comfort zone for the girl. "Any specific doll you like the most?"  
><em>

"_Scarface." Peyton smiled at last. Harleen assumed she was referring to her Al Capone doll. "He was a gift from Uncle Andrew before he died. Scarface is always reminding me of how we have to treat each day as if it were our last."_

"_A good philosophy." Harleen chose not to contradict the delusion. A trust had to be built first and foremost before the barriers could be broken down. "Anything else that makes you happy?"  
><em>

"_I like you, Dr. Quinzel," Peyton's smile turned to her doctor. "You're nice and you don't treat me like a freak just because I'm going through some rough times. That makes me happy."_

_Harleen smiled back, carefully choosing her next words. "Thank you, Peyton. I like you, too. And I'm here for you, to help you get past this rough patch." She scribbled down a note before saying, "Anything else?"_

"_There was Matthew before he died." Her late fiance. "Nothing made me happier than being in his arms."  
><em>

"_Why don't you tell me more about him?"_

"_I...I can't. Not yet."_

_Harleen understood. Hard memories to touch. "Alright, then. What else?"_

_The girl bit her lower lip, thinking. "I guess, Tommy. He made me happy."_

_Harleen became interested at the new name. "Tommy. You haven't mentioned him before. Who was he?"  
><em>

_Peyton brushed a piece of blond hair out of her eyes. "He was supposed to be my escape."_

* * *

><p>Minutes passed, Thomas paying close attention to change the fluid bag for her I.V. He wasn't ignoring her query. No. He was assessing the best way to address it. Harley watched him carefully for the quickening of breath, the flicker of his eyes back and forth. He was lost inside himself, the debate raging on. His mask was not good enough to fool her. Cool, aloof, strategizing. Not after Mr. J. Masks meant nothing to her anymore. A tool to use or be picked apart.<p>

Inside herself, she battled against the rage. The memory of the little lost girl that got too close. And she was confused at her sudden anger. She had barely thought of Peyton since she left Arkham. Even before, when she first met Mr. J. The girl was nothing but another basket case to her, despite what happened. Her temper wasn't unusual but it was burning hot at the mention of her name. It made her itch inside.

"Peyton was a sweet girl but too clingy," Thomas finally spoke. "Desperate to run away from her life. I think she saw me as her chance. It wasn't."

"You dated her."

"She was married," he looked to Harley. "And I was a horny undergrad. It didn't work for very long."

"You don't actually expect me to buy that load of bullshit," Harley said. "I'm not an idiot."

"What do you expect me to say, Harleen?" A tiny bit of anger in his eyes.

She didn't bother to correct him on her name. "How about the truth? That you used her and manipulated her to get what you wanted." The wheels turned. She made the connections. At the time, she hadn't known that the Tommy in Peyton's story was Thomas Elliot. It became clear now and she kicked herself for not seeing the similarities. But how could she believe the tall tales of a paranoid schizophrenic?

The anger grew. "People use each other sometimes. That's the way the world works. She was lonely and I was a good listener. So, I used it to get in her pants. Is that a crime?"

Harley grinned, slowly needling her way into his head. "No. It's not. But it's not the truth I'm talking about."

"What are you referring to, then?" He was guarded. Body becoming rigid. Secrets. She knew the signs all too well. His posture was so close to the perfected control she had once. His wasn't as good. Or as practiced.

Harley leaned back into the stack of pillows behind her, enjoying this turn around. She felt like Mr. J for a moment, analyzing the movements, playing the game as it once was in her old office. "I was Peyton's psychiatrist for a couple of months. We talked about a lot of things. Her father, her husband, her first love." She paused for a moment for emphasis. "You."

Silence fell again as he assessed the direction of the conversation. His curiosity got the better of him. "And what did she say about me?"

Oh, Thomas. Exposing the truth was always such a treat. These were the moments she lived for. The surprise, the anger, the fear, the sadness. Usually, she saw them in the eyes of her victims, but Thomas wasn't a victim. He was a project, something to change and mold. A beautiful disaster waiting to crash in front of her. She wanted to see all those emotions cross her friend's face.

"That she helped you get your inheritance." Harley gave him a knowing smile, watching the horror spread over his face.

* * *

><p><em>In their fifth session, Peyton finally felt comfortable enough with Dr. Quinzel to open up. <em>

"_I fell in love at an early age to a man named Matthew Atkins. I told you this before, right?" Peyton looked up to see her doctor nod. "He was amazing and wanted nothing more than to dote on me. He proposed and I said yes. But my father didn't approve. No, he had other plans for my life. Daddy was the leader of the Irish mafia in Gotham, at the time. You may have even heard his name. Sean Riley. And when daddy didn't approve, bad things tended to happen."_

"_You mentioned that your fiance had died," Harleen said. "Was he murdered?" _

"_Yes," Peyton nodded. "I was ruining my father's big plans. He wanted to solidify a truce between the Irish and the Italians, to stop all the fighting. Peace meant more profit. So daddy had Matthew killed and I was forced to marry Johnny Sabatino, some big wig with the Italians. I was just an olive branch, nothing more." She sounded so casual about the death of her fiance, the change in her life. Harleen had to wonder if the story had any validity or if it was another of her delusions. "It's hard, you know, to be trapped in a loveless relationship. Especially when your husband views you as little more than a slave, useless except as a punching bag."_

_Peyton was unusually lucid. Harleen made a note to keep with the same medications. "So where does Tommy come in?" She knew better than to press her about the marriage. It wasn't time yet._

"_About a year into my marriage, I met Tommy. He hated his life as much as I did. I guess the reason he made me so happy was because he understood me. He made me feel special. Important. Everything that Johnny never would." Peyton pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Every chance I got, I'd escape to his arms so he could make me forget the beatings. He'd kiss each bruise and tell me how beautiful I was."_

"_Sounds like he was good for you," Harley said._

"_Oh, he was. He wanted to take me with him, when he left this wretched town behind. But he had to wait until his mother died so he could collect his inheritance. She was sick with cancer." She blew another piece of hair out of her eyes before biting her lower lip. "Uh, Dr. Quinzel, if I tell you about something, is it just between us?"_

_Harleen nodded. "Medical confidentiality is in effect here. Anything you divulge to me is between us. However, please understand that I will have to report any instance of imminent harm to yourself or to others."_

"_What about past..." The girl seemed to search for the right word._

"_Crimes?" Harleen offered, leading Peyton to nod. "As long as the crime is in the past and there are no current safety issues, then it is still covered by confidentiality."_

_Peyton looked relieved. "Oh good. I've been wanting to talk about this for awhile but I was scared what would happen."_

"_This is a safe place."_

"_So, I don't know all the details on exactly what happened but his mother, I guess, heard about me. Told Tommy that I was trash and not worthy of him. She disowned him, completely, not even giving him a chance to explain. Changing her will and all. What a bitch. And he called me. I could hear the anger over the phone. He wanted it over with. Just get rid of the bitch and be done with it. But the problem was that she was changing her will. How did we get around that problem so he got his money."_

_Harleen wanted to interrupt, to ask questions, to flesh the details out. See if the story was fiction or reality, but truth be told, she was too compelled by the tale. Wanting to know where it led, which dark path it twisted down. The answer wasn't surprising as Peyton continued._

"_I waited outside his house when the lawyer was there for the will change. We planned meticulously. I used some of daddy's guys to clean up the mess. Ran the bastard off the road and set his car on fire, thus preventing the new will from being filed. Meanwhile, Tommy was supposed to kill his mom, making it look like she just died from the cancer. Probably smothered her, I suppose."_

_Brutal, though nowhere near the massacres Harleen herself had committed. Before her, Peyton's eyes had filled with tears again. Guilt? No, loss. Maybe both. Hard to tell. _

"_Worse part is, as soon as he got the money, he dumped me. Left me to fend for myself." Peyton's head dropped into her knees, sobbing. Her words choked out. "Because of his selfishness, my dad was killed by Johnny right in front of me. And then he shot me three times. And I got sent here."_

"_You blame him, this Tommy, for your current situation?" A good start. Even if the story was false, the person was likely real. Tommy. Someone she could focus on, begin to repair the damaged mind of Ms. Riley. Repress those horrible memories to find some control over her condition._

"_Every single day," Peyton said, the words muffled by her knees. Then after a moment, she began to laugh. Unsettling. "I guess I lied last week. In the end, Tommy didn't really make me happy."_

* * *

><p>"You killed your mother, Thomas. Congratulations. You're no better than I am." Harley clapped her hands, slow, sarcastic. "You're one of us."<p>

Visibly, Thomas shook. All those tiny emotions flooding through his body, his face growing red. Anger was winning out over the rest. Typical with men. She saw his fists ball up and became excited, hoping he would beat her for the revelation. Very few men got the honor of laying hands on her but for him, she'd let it happen. Let him rage all over her and bloody her body. And she would enjoy every moment, missing Mr. J's harsh touch but enjoying the feel of something new. Thomas' eyes glared at her, a rage fueled from something dark within. A true delight. Harley didn't need to corrupt Thomas. He was already there, just begging for that final push over the edge.

"Come on, Thomas," she taunted. "You know you want to do it. Don't I remind you of your mother? Laying here, all helpless? Relying on you to care for me?" She licked her lips, watching him twitch, an internal struggle that she was all too familiar with. "How did you kill her, I wonder. Smother your poor mom with a pillow? Inject her with a lethal dose? Or did you want to be more hands on? Wrapping your hands around her throat, choking the life out of her?" Harley laughed. "It must have beautiful to watch the life drain out of her. And here I am, in the same position as she once was. Does it turn you on to see your past coming to life in your present?"

A scream of rage emerged from his mouth as he scrambled towards her, wrapping his hands around her throat, thumbs cutting off her air, pressing into the scar the ran across her neck. Familiar and stimulating. Memories of her lover doing the same, over and over, before and after her change. And she smiled up at the internal destruction she wrought. The anger, the hate, in his eyes. Thomas was cracking and it was magnificent to witness.

She would have laughed if she had the breath to do so.

* * *

><p>"<em>I just feel so lonely sometimes, like no one understands me." Peyton's tears fell. "I miss intimacy. I miss the touch of another human being."<em>

"_Arkham does offer animal therapy," Harleen said. "An hour a week with an animal. Cat, dog, hamster, and others. Obviously, you have to work for that privilege but it's worthwhile. Many of the patients here have benefited from the program. Would you be interested?"_

_She shook her head. "It won't help. I just...I don't know."  
><em>

"_You'll get past this, Peyton. I know you will." Harleen glanced at the time. "I'm sorry, we're out of time for today. Why don't we talk more about this next time? And I'll see what I can do about increasing your recreation time with the other patients."_

_Fifteen sessions so far. Two months. A lot of progress with the disturbed girl. And her heart went out to Peyton, really feeling sympathy for her. A girl caught up in her family's mafia life, forced into situations where the easier choice was the criminal choice. No wonder her mind couldn't handle it, the trauma. Too close to home, Harleen knew. Her inner demons saw the weakness inside Peyton, but the controlled side only saw someone who needed help. _

_With fluid grace, she stood. Peyton didn't, staying in her seat, as if she wanted something. "Is there something else you need?" Harleen asked._

_Peyton nodded. "A hug?" _

_She looked so miserable. So pathetic that Harleen couldn't say no, despite the professional boundaries and ethics involved. She nodded to the girl and went to her, wrapping her arms around her, hoping one day, the wounds would heal. Peyton sobbed into her shoulder, created wet spots on her turtleneck. "It'll be okay, Peyton."_

"_I know it will."_

_A change in tone. The sudden even breathing. Warning bells went off in Harleen's head a second before Peyton punched her in the gut. Harleen went down, the air whooshing from her lungs. She had no time to recover before Peyton was on her, slamming the back of her head into the carpeted floor. Delicious pain rushed through her system as she struggled to breath and stay conscious. Her control was beginning to fail, the demons inside crawling at her mind, wanting to shred her attacker to pieces. No breath to focus on, no object to connect her mind to. She was losing the war of her instinctual id state. _

_Peyton crawled off Harleen's prone form, walking over to the desk. "You know too much, Dr. Quinzel." The paranoia side of her schizophrenia was coming to the front, her voice shaky and shrill. "He said I couldn't trust you. He told me you'd betray me, tell my secrets and I can't have that!" She was practically screaming. "Only person I can trust is Scarface. He'll protect me and keep me safe. Not you!" _

_Harleen twitched, bleeding but trying to move, trying to catch her breath enough to call out for help. Fighting to keep her control in check. She felt like an idiot. Trusting the poor, sick girl to be just that. But she had forgotten that no one came to Arkham without a history of violence of some sort. A rookie mistake and foolish of her to believe that this girl even wanted her help. _

_Peyton returned, clutching Harleen's laptop in her hands, a dangerous look in her eyes. Just as she was about to bring it down in a deadly blow, the door crashed open. The two guards were on the girl in an instant, pulling her away, the laptop falling harmlessly to the floor. Peyton screamed as they pushed her down to the floor, struggling harshly against their grip. The adrenalin kicked in and Harleen sat up, ignoring the lightheaded feeling that threatened to put her back down again. A nurse came running in, needle in hand, injecting the girl with a sedative as Harleen watched, stunned, recovering._

_The anger, the hate, in Peyton's eyes before they closed. It was the most heartbreaking thing Harleen had ever witnessed._

* * *

><p>Two hands pulled Thomas off her. Harley sucked in a deep breath, gasping, coughing. The pain abandoning her, much to her sorrow. The darkness around her vision began to clear and she saw Geoffrey, the butler, tossing Thomas into the armoire. The dignified man stood between her and Thomas, making sure he didn't make another attempt on her life. But she could see the rage fading from her friend, a lightning temper. A flash, one last glare, and it was gone, leaving nothing but a cold, clinical stare behind.<p>

Thomas nodded to the butler, saying nothing, before stalking from the room. Geoffrey monitored his exit before turning to Harley. "Are you alright, miss?"

"Never better," Harley rasped, her own voice sounding like Mr. J's, her smile never leaving her face.

Geoffrey shook his head in disbelief at her reaction, a sigh, before leaving the room, no doubt to chase after his employer. Thomas was a ticking time bomb of repressed emotions, hidden beneath his cool mask. His mask was better than she originally thought. Harley hadn't suspected a thing. Another person who hit close to home, and she remembered the lessons of Peyton. On the nightstand, her phone beeped, a text message from Mr. J.

_P. R. suicide Friday post-visit from T.E. Wednesday. _

Peyton Riley was dead. The inner fire that had been burning since the mention of the name began to die. While not her first case, Peyton was the first to affect her emotionally. She would normally chalk up the mistakes to inexperience and youth, but it was the only case she ever had reassigned to another doctor. No. It was the look in her eyes. The same look she saw in Thomas' eyes. The same look she used to see in her own, before she became free. The darkness within.

Hidden, little nuggets of destruction implanted in the mind. Peyton gave in to hers through a deranged hatred and rage. Harley gave in to hers through despair, love, and years of pain. Thomas, though, was still holding on. Even without the butler's interference, she suspected he would have let go on his own. Rage and hate weren't his path, not entirely. Neither was love. No, he would need something more. Harley just needed to discover what.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you all for continuing to follow this story or review it. I had a lot of issues writing this chapter so I hope it came across well. For those curious, it follows some of the DC comic book history of Peyton Riley and Thomas Elliot. Questions, comments, feedback? Please review!**


	6. One Moment

Chapter Six: One Moment

Thomas did not come to see her later that night. Nor the next day. An I.V. bag was left inside the door every twelve hours, the assumption clear for her to administer her own therapy. Her experience had become boring, restless. And her phone call to Mr. J didn't afford her a chance to ask if she could come home. But Harley's strength was returning, enough to put aside the bed pan and use the bathroom instead. The mirror showed her weakness. Mr. J was right. Useless. Dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess. Her clothes hung a little looser, the signs of her I.V. diet. Purple bruises lined her neck from Thomas' hands, the center of her throat aching anytime she swallowed her water. And she smelled of infection, a sick body in her sick bed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, welcoming the sunlight that accompanied the afternoon of her fourth day in captivity, she peeled back the bandages of her wound, grimacing at the oozing puss that formed around the hole in her body. She was not disgusted by the sight, merely worried that it would set back her recovery time. Apparently Thomas did not put antibiotics into the I.V. solution. She would need to rectify that problem immediately if she wanted to return to the arms of her lover any time soon.

Slowly, relishing the aches, the pains, that coursed through her body, Harley walked out of the bedroom for the first time, dragging the I.V. cart behind her. A grand hallway, wood paneling floor to ceiling, greeted her. The scent of old smoke and memory drifted into her nostrils, a rich history. Paintings hung on the wall, beautiful yet simple. Stiffness from her underused muscles was to be expected as she glided down the hallway, trying to remember her way around a mansion that she had only visited a couple of times. The view from her window had shown her to be on the top floor and Thomas' bedroom had to be on the same floor, logically. She was determined to find it.

"Miss, can I help you?"

She turned, surprised. Off her game, not hearing the stealthy approach of the butler. "Good afternoon Geoffrey."

"Is there something you need, miss?" His voice conveyed the perfection of fortitude, British accent shining through, yet he held a sadness in his eyes, reminiscent of an orphan, right down to the small spot of dirt under his eye. She had never thought of Geoffrey as being vulnerable before.

"Yes, actually." Harley leaned against the wall. "My wound is infected. I need some antibiotics. I was just going to find Thomas to ask him for some."

"I'll take care of it, miss. If you take this right, you'll find yourself in the lounge. Why don't you stay there and rest while I find Master Thomas?"

Harley nodded her thanks and followed his directions to find the large, open lounge, same wood paneling. Display cases lined the walls, treasures that only the Elliot family could appreciate. Large leather couches, loveseats, chairs in the center of the room, most of them facing a fireplace. Brown, bland, but still warm. This was a place of family gathering, to take tea or discuss world events. Harley hated it, instantly, imagining the cool distance between Thomas and his family. Above the fireplace, set on top a mantel was a large family portrait from Thomas' youth. His mother and father touching each one of his shoulders in a proper pose. Aristocratic. The child in the middle seemed unhappy, but perhaps her own skewed view put a different perspective on it.

She sat down on one of the couches, curling her legs under her sideways, the cart moving with her motions. The eyes of the parents in the painting seemed to follow her, judging, especially the mother. Nothing like her own, even though Harley never spoke to her anymore. Mostly because of the whole being a criminal thing, but also because her mother was too accepting. Too loving. Most children thrived on it. Harley resisted it at every turn, not wanting that closeness with family that others craved. It really made no sense to anyone, least of all to herself.

"Harleen," Thomas said from behind her.

She didn't turn, waiting for him to come into her line of sight, still watching the creepy, shaded eyes of his parents. "Thomas."

"Geoffrey says you need some antibiotics?"

"Yes."

He rounded the couch, sitting down on her right side. "Let me look."

She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Drowning his memories in fine whiskey as most men would when confronted with uncomfortable truths. Harley moved her clothing aside, allowing him to study the wound under the gauze. Thomas nodded, confirming what she told him and handed her a small bottle of unlabeled pills. "There are antibiotics in the bag but they obviously aren't strong enough. Take two pills a day, the full course."

Shifting her clothing back into place, she nodded. "Thank you."

As in on cue, Geoffrey came into the lounge with a tray of food, the smell intoxicating. He placed a glass of water on the side table next to her place on the couch, along with a bowl of soup. On the coffee table near Thomas, the rest of the tray was set down, more whiskey and some hearty stew. The drinker's meal. She looked at the soup next to her, raising her eyebrow in question.

"I'm moving you off the I.V. diet. Soft foods and liquids only for the next few days." Thomas took up his glass of whiskey. He wasn't drunk, not really, just the slightest sign of a buzz. "Your intestines are still healing so don't push it. I'll take the I.V. out when you're finished with lunch."

After taking the pills, Harley picked up the bowl of soup, piping hot, steam rising. Tomato, it seemed. She took a small spoonful and blew on it to help it cool faster. When Geoffrey left, she looked to her friend. "So are we going to talk about this or what?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Why not? Do you think I'm going to judge you?" Harley placed the spoon in her mouth, nearly moaning at the taste of real food. She had been so hungry and so patient. It was a wonder she didn't freak out and storm the kitchen. "Oh god, this is the best thing I've had in my mouth."

Mr. J would have had a witty reply. Thomas, however, did not. "I'll let Geoffrey know you approve of his cooking."

"In any case," she said, scooping up more soup. "I'm not the one to throw stones at what you did. I've done far worse in my time."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Boring," Harley said with a roll of her eyes. "I'd rather have that passion, that rage you showed before."

"I almost killed you." He looked away, ashamed, taking another gulp of his vile drink.

"Yeah, you did, and see how much I care? I don't. That kind of shit is foreplay to me."

His jaw dropped, turning back to look at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She couldn't help but smirk. "I'm living, Thomas. Enjoying each little sensation, emotion, touch." Harley swallowed more soup, still feeling the ache around her throat. "That's why I don't care that you choked me. There's something primal in that sort of intimacy, victim and killer. I've seen it time and time again and it never gets old, whether I'm the killer, or I'm the victim."

"That's simply revolting."

"You're a killer, just like me, and yet you have the audacity to throw stones?"

"I don't get a sick pleasure out of it."

Harley laughed. "Everyone gets off on it, in their own way, and I'm not talking about it in sexual way. Sometimes the thrill comes from the power over someone else. Or in your case, perhaps the power of taking control of your own destiny. Sure, you used some poor girl to get it done, but in the end, you wound up with what you wanted."

Mr. J, she knew, would not have approved of this line of conversation. He disdained the rich in their gilded towers of power, looking down at everyone. So many of them hid their dirty little secrets, many of them killers, thieves, extortionists. Hiding from their real selves. Thomas was another, just like the rest, disguising his reality with a pretty bow. She was pushing to find Thomas' button, his trigger, but in the end, it was forcing her to encourage the greed that inspired the deed. Not something Mr. J would like. Greed was pathetic, he'd say. Another mask to conceal the irrefutable truth of life, and the need to destroy. Everyone had it inside and only a rare few could accept it as Harley had.

"You can lie to the public, your friends, your clients, even yourself" she said, "but you can't lie to me. I see through it all. In that one moment of letting go, when you gave into that darkness inside of you, you knew what it was to finally live your life. That spark, that moment is what defines us. Most people shrink away but not you. You're special. Different. You're not like the rest of them."

Thomas sat, drinking, absorbing her words. Harley watched his reactions as she polished off the soup bowl. After a moment, he looked back to her. "You said you've been a victim."

"Who hasn't? It's just another state of being."

"How," he swallowed hard, "does that feel to you?"

She read between the lines. Thomas considered himself a victim of sorts. She smiled. "It depends on who you're a victim to. Sometimes it's willing, sometimes not. When you're willing, it can be satisfying for both parties. When you're not, it's harsh, real, but there is still a connection between you and your victimizer."

"What about the Joker?"

"What about him?"

"Are you his victim?"

Harley had to smile. "You've been listening to the news too much. They all assume that I was this fragile psychiatrist whose mind was warped by his insane conviction and charm. But in truth, I was trapped where I was and he was the only one who could see it. You remember me back then. All control and caution. All hiding something that I wasn't. I can't tell you the whole story, but Mr. J unlocked the part of myself that I had sequestered behind thick walls. I'm happy now."

Thomas put his glass down on the coffee table, leaning his arm against the back of the couch. He was entranced by the conversation. "What part of yourself?"

"This." Harley's hand waved down her body. "It's not about the scars but where they came from. You're not an idiot. You know they're old, from long before I met you. A time when chaos ruled by life and not in a good way."

"And somehow you stopped that chaos."

"Yes."

"Why?"

For a moment, she flashed back to Guy's body hanging from a beam in a dingy basement. His eyes opened, nothing staring back at her. She shuddered. "All actions have consequences, Thomas. We're not always prepared for the disaster we leave in the wake of destruction." She touched her chest, over her heart. "I wasn't, so I locked away the heart of me, leaving a shell of a woman behind."

"I liked that shell," Thomas said. "Compassionate, giving, rational."

"I haven't lost those parts of myself," she responded, trying desperately not to let any anger seep through. "They just don't hold the sway that they once did. Mr. J reopened my eyes to a world without boundaries, without prisons. I don't have to care about anything but the moment. It's true freedom."

"As a slave to his whims? I haven't seen you two interact much but what I have, it's seems like you're nothing but his prisoner."

Harley laughed. "I guess, to an outside eye, it would appear that way. He stops me when I can't stop myself. Unfortunately, my chaos needs some control, and I can't provide that for myself anymore. He does it for me so I don't go too far."

He shook his head. "I've seen and heard about the things you've done. How is that not too far?"

Setting her eyes on his, she lost her smile, thinking of all the things she wish she could do. "Everything that I've done is nothing," she sneered, "compared to what I am capable of. Mr. J prevents that side of me from unleashing my fury upon those who don't deserve it."

Thomas stood up, waving her to move over so he could sit on her left side. Carefully, he placed her left arm on his lap, preparing to removing the needle. "How is that freedom then? Don't you feel just as trapped by your boyfriend as you did by your former life?"

"Sometimes," Harley confessed. "But I need him because you don't want to see what would happen if his voice wasn't in my thoughts constantly." Her voice cracked slightly as he pulled the needle out, slapping a band aid over the tiny mark in her arm.

"I think you could handle it. You're a strong capable woman, Harleen."

The words spurred her to action, letting her emotions and her desires take full control. Ignoring the ache in her muscles, Harley twisted her body to straddle his legs, trapping Thomas between her and the couch. She pressed her arms behind him, against the back of the sofa, pressing her breasts against his chest in a show of feline grace. Startled by her action, Thomas sat still, looking up at her, seeing the lust in her eyes. She smiled down at him, moving her hips in small circles, enjoying the effect of his growing hardness beneath her. Leaning down slightly, she captured his lips, pressing hard. Not kissing, just skin touching skin. Harsh, brutal, assaulting him with her aggressive nature.

Pulling back, she laughed at the shocked expression on his face. "You see, without some form of control, I would devolve into nothing more than a series of impulses and instincts. I love the feel of it, wrapped up in my core, doing whatever I want. I could fuck you right now, make you scream out my name a dozen times, and then slit you," She touched his neck gently with a fingernail, tracing it down the line of Thomas' chest to his stomach, "from throat to navel. And I wouldn't care or mourn you in the least. I'd relish every moment and try to relive it in other victims. So tell me, dear, do you still think I could handle a life without Mr. J?"

Thomas continued to stay as still as her could beneath her. His unspoken terror was an elixir to her senses. "You made your point. Get off me."

She didn't. Instead, she moved her hand down further between them, tickling the edge of his belt line. No, Harley wanted to make another point, dig into his skull further. "As for you, you're in this moment, aren't you? Every second ticking by, you're not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. You're thinking about right now. The instinctual self taking over, as I can feel." He hand drifted even lower, lightly grazing his involuntary erection, pulling a gasp from him. "Thing is, it's not about your hard-on, or your fear, or anything else. It's about the experience blossoming before you, whatever it may be. Right here, right now, in this one moment, you're truly alive."

She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think about when you killed your mother. Each second of the act forever burned into your memory. And ask yourself this. Have you ever felt a moment with such clarity as you did then?"

With sore muscles, she lifted herself off him, snatching the bottle of pills off the side table. With a smile to his stationary form, she turned, enjoying the heavy breaths that faded as her path took her out of the lounge. A little push every day. Thomas would crack. Yet, in the back of her mind, something he said nagged at her, little coils inside her head. A part of her knew he was right. Her claims of freedom were a lie. How could she ever truly be free if she was still trapped by Mr. J?

* * *

><p>Several hours later, Harley's attention was captured by the television.<p>

"Breaking news live here at GCN studios. There has been a breakout at Arkham Asylum. Three reported dead, dozens injured, and five inmates escaped, including the terrorist, Jonathan Crane, also known by the alias 'Scarecrow.'" A picture of the reserved psychiatrist flashed over the screen. "The people of Gotham will remember Jonathan Crane for the toxin he spread across half the city, inducing hallucinations, paranoia, and panic. Many lives were lost in this terrorist attack. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Do not approach him. Call the police if you have any information as to his whereabouts. The tip hotline number is below."

More pictures of escaped patients scrolled through the screen as the news reporter recounted their crimes. No one of note, except Crane. Harley had to smile. Her wish might finally come true.

An on-the-scene reporter came on screen. Arkham Asylum standing proud behind the coiffed woman, ablaze with police and ambulance lights. "We do not have any information as to the names of the deceased at this time. However, an inside source at Arkham told GCN that the Joker was seen on the premises and may have been responsible for the breakout. The same source also told us that Jonathan Crane was seen cutting the ears off several employees of the asylum, a gruesome act that I'm told is not normal for him."

Harley immediately muted the TV, picking up her phone to call Mr. J. Voicemail. A rarity. Too busy with the breakout? She shook her head. No, his plans wouldn't include something so small, unless he changed them without telling her. But why would he do that? He always wanted her assistance with anything big and he didn't know Arkham as well as she did. But the reports wouldn't lie. He'd been acting strange lately. First, the shooting at McDonalds, now this. Worry knotted her stomach.

After the beep, she spoke. "Hey. I'm watching GCN and it says you broke Crane out of Arkham. What the fuck? Call me."

The last bit of the report gnawed at her. Made her remember her reawakening. The blood, the muffled screams and frightened eyes. The ear in her hand, Crane's eyes wide with agony, tears spilling down his freckled cheeks. The sawing motion as skin and cartilage split and crimson poured onto her hands. Oh, Crane was sending her a message, wasn't he? Practically screaming that he remembered the hurt she inflicted on him. Vengeance for wrongs committed.

Crane was going to come after Harley while she was at her weakest. She discovered the thought created a tingle of excitement inside of her. Maybe this time, it would be a fair fight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Questions, comments, feedback? Please review.**


	7. Physical, Mental

Chapter Seven: Physical, Mental

Seven days. Approximately seven days to heal from a gunshot wound to the torso, barring any complications. It would take another ten days before full function could be restored, organ damage took longer. It was a trifle for Harley, really. Barely of note, another scar that would fade into the patchwork of her body. And yet, Mr. J understood how it would stand out in her mind for the rest of her life, a symbol of her commitment to him. And the lessons her unknown future would hold because of one tiny little hole. Harley would not see. Not yet. The patterns emerged and she was blind to them. But hovering over her bed on day five, everything finally clicked, and Mr. J had to smile at the elegance of it all.

Initially, he had come to her bedside to assure his dominance over her. She had been gone too long, without proper motivation. Phone calls could only last so long and her increasingly vulgar voicemails began to grate on his nerves. A reminder was needed of who was in control. She was beginning to slip away and he could not allow that. But as he stared down at her sleeping form, her breaths staggered from nightmares, wild hair strewn across the pillow, the details came together at last. The little things, information gathered from Livingston, Doc, and his latest acquisition, everything added up. And he could easily see where this wild ride would take her.

It was time to let her fall down the rabbit hole and open the doors that led to a new beginning. The time for her physical awakening was over. The time to work on her mind had finally come.

* * *

><p>A sharp crack startled her from her sleep, a delightful combination of sound and physical torment as a hand slapped down on her ass. She didn't turn towards the attack, instead smiling into her pillow. "You had better be the busty, brunette dominatrix I ordered." Another strike against her ass made her moan and she rolled over to grin at her lover. "Eh, close enough."<p>

"You shouldn't sleep with your back to the door," Mr. J said, his eyes intensely watching her as she stretched. "Thought I taught you better than that."

Sitting up, she couldn't help but laugh. "But then I would have missed out on your creative wake up call."

Mr. J grunted as a response, slipping a gloved hand into the oversized pockets of his trench coat. "Brought you a gift. Something to pass the time."

Harley clapped excitedly with a happy squeal, like a child. "Ooh! I love presents."

A book landed in her lap. It was old, greasepaint fingerprints meshed into the basic black leather. "Seriously? I'm gone a few days and you can't be bothered to wash you hands?" Even without seeing his bare hands, she knew he hadn't. They would be filthy with caked makeup, blood, and gasoline. "This is why we can't have nice things, you know."

"No," he said. "It's because you keep burning or breaking all the nice things."

"Because of all the damn smudgy fingerprints. It's like living with a four year old sometimes," she commented, opening the book carefully. "What is this?" Hand scrawled notes, meticulous and precise, strangely mixed with bold, aggressive writing in places.

"You, my dear, are looking at the secret diaries of a former psychiatrist."

"Not mine so it must be-"

"Jonathan Crane's."

Suddenly, the strange dissonance between the two different styles of writing made sense. "Where did you get this?" she asked.

"Breaking into Arkham is surprisingly much harder than breaking out." Mr. J pushed her legs, roughly, off the bed, making room for him to sit.

"Yeah, a big thanks for breaking Crane out, by the way," Harley said. She wasn't even sure if she was sarcastic or not. "You do know he's going to come after me, right?"

Mr. J just smiled at her, enigmatically. It was one of his most annoying traits, that stupid grin of all knowing superiority. Made her want to rip off his face at times. He rarely kept secrets from her, but when he did, she always regretted the outcome because it was usually for her benefit. Lessons she didn't want to learn but needed. His ever tightening leash on her actions.

"I fucking hate you, sometimes." She rolled her eyes at him.

Another sharp crack whipped through the air. It took her a moment to register her body had fallen backwards on to the bed, her face flooding with the pain of Mr. J's slap to her cheek. The sting curled around her like an old friend who had returned after being gone too long. His hand ripped through her hair, yanking her back up to a sitting position, turning her head to a painful angle to stare in her eyes. That cold expression across his features.

"You know how I feel about you lying to me, Harley."

The throbbing in her scalp, the dull ache of her cheek, ignited her lust. She couldn't move her head, but as close as he was, her tongue darted out to capture the taste of greasepaint and lipstick on his lower lip. The feel of his essence on her tongue invigorated her senses and yet, she felt strangely out of place, almost trapped by his rough hand in her hair. Her lust instantly evaporated. It wasn't an unusual motion for him to manhandle her as such, but after several days of no contact, the sensations stirring inside her were no longer sexual. They were predatory. Fight or flight.

"You're right, Mr. J. I was lying." And she smiled. She was always a fighter.

Her fingers came up to lightly stroke his makeup covered face. "I fucking hate you all the time," she spat at him, as she gouged her fingernails down his cheeks, eliciting a rare grunt of discomfort from him. The hand in her hair yanked her away from him, his other hand curling into a fist. Before she could react, he landed a harsh blow to her chin. Another fell, and then another, her vision darkening with each punch. She became limp in his grip, unable to focus enough to fight back. His hand disentangled from her roots, letting her drop down to the bed. Harley should have enjoyed the beating, the torment of pleasure radiating from her pounded face, and yet she felt unsatisfied. At that moment, she was unfulfilled. And full of fury towards her aggressor.

Mr. J leaned over her, trickles of blood pouring from the tiny nail marks in his cheeks. A drop of blood splashed onto her nose, the smell so vile and human. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face, seeing the haze in her eyes, the anger hidden beneath. "You've been away too long, Harley. You've forgotten who rules you."

It was an effort to stay conscious as he continued to brutally beat her body, no longer focusing strictly on her face. But, as his own form of kindness, he avoided the area with the gunshot wound. She made no sound, each hit failing to produce the usual gratification, as her mind went to dark places of rage. How dare he limit her? Stop her from doing as she desired. What was worse was that he wore his gloves the entire time. His beating wasn't the personal touch that she so often craved. It was cold, hard, and disgusting. The waves of bliss that filled her as his fists collided into her soft flesh could not make her happy. Not this time. Her physical desires could not outweigh her current mind space.

"Stop," she whispered through breaths she could barely catch.

Mr. J peered down at her. "Oh, did I hurt you, Harley?" The sarcasm was unmistakable. "Want me to get you an ice cream cone?" His hands pressed down against the bed on either side of her head, his chest pinning her to the mattress.

"Seriously, stop," she said, feeling ire at his belittling of her, more so than she had ever felt before. Then everything changed inside her, the tendrils of fury slipping away. The way his body pressed against hers made her feel claustrophobic forcing her anger to dissipate. Closed in, trapped. She needed to be free of his confines, his hot breathing in her face. His scent of cigarettes and death. The sweat that clung to his shirt slicking against her. Flight took over. She, vainly, struggled against his hold, pushing up at his body with her weak hands, crying out for the first time in frustration and panic when he didn't budge. The way any woman would when being attacked.

Mr. J seemed to consider her actions as he looked down on her. "You're really not enjoying this." If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought he was concerned for her. He raised a hand to stroke her bruised chin but she turned her head away. "Damn, Harley," he said, moving off her. "What the hell is going on with you?"

The instant she was free, her adrenalin kicked in and she pushed off the bed, swiftly moving to the corner of the room, as far away from him as she could get. Harley brought her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs, staring at him as he stood. Mr. J made no move towards her, instead turning to look down at the rumpled bedsheets. Her mind raced, a mile a minute, trying to figure out what just happened. Her reactions didn't feel like her own and yet, at the same time, they were as real to her emotionally as anything else. Her state of id was reeling from the sensations, drawing away into itself, as a child would.

"I don't know." Her voice was still fragile but carried clear through the space.

Mr. J looked over at her, holding her eyes, analyzing as he always did. He would see inside her, see that she still felt the pleasure of the pain, and was torn by her own illogical reactions, maybe even ashamed. He would feel no pity, calculating his next move with her current frail state. Deciding whether to leave her or take her with him. All this ran through her head, making her smile. She really did know his mind at times, especially when it came to how he viewed his Harley.

The closed door burst open, Thomas and Geoffrey rushing in, likely having heard her scream. Thomas took one look at Harley in her corner, face beginning to bruise, and turned his fiery blue eyes towards Mr. J. "Get. Out."

Harley could see the rage boiling under her friend's skin, the desire to do great violence. Even huddled as she was, she wanted to see him take a go at Mr. J, unleash that anger as he had done to her. Despite her murky emotional state, she would still see the project to a close. When Mr. J didn't move, Thomas nodded to the butler who drew a gun, aiming it at Mr. J. Harley was too stunned to speak, watching the alpha male aggression radiate between the two. Dogs fighting over a bone.

"I said, get out," Thomas spoke again.

Mr. I ignored the butler's gun, seemingly unconcerned as he approached Thomas. "Whatever you say, Tommy-boy." Then he leaned over to the red-headed man and said something into his ear. Harley couldn't hear the words, but it made her friend's eyes widen in surprise. Then, with his usual flourish, Mr. J pushed past Thomas with a "Be good, Harley" as he left the room.

"Geoffrey." Thomas' voice was strained. He coughed to clear his throat. "See the visitor out."

The butler followed Mr. J out, not holstering the weapon. She prayed she wouldn't hear the sound of gunfire. With the overwhelming presence of Mr. J gone, Harley began to think through what the hell just happened to her. Her anger, the rage, could almost be understood. An instinctual reaction to a threat that was dominating her. Mr. J wasn't wrong. She had been gone for too long and was starting to slip away from his controlling grip. Her mind going in directions that it wanted to, as opposed to listening to him. But the fear, the panic, that was entirely new. She was a force to be reckoned with, not some girl cowering in a corner.

Crouching down in front of her, Thomas reached a hand forward slowly, waiting to see if she pulled away. When she didn't, he gently touched her shoulder, examining the injuries to her face carefully. His expression hardened. "I am going to kill him."

With a light touch to his hand, she shook her head. "Please don't."

"How can you protect that...thing, that monster that did this to you?" Thomas was livid and repulsed by her request.

"I told you before," she sighed. "I like the pain."

He sat down in front of her, one knee up, his face changing to an exasperated look. "You were screaming. We both heard you. It didn't sound like you liked it."

"I can't explain it." Harley looked away. "It wasn't my normal reaction. I know why he came at me, to reenforce our bond. This is the longest I've been away from him since Arkham." She could feel her cheek stretching painfully as she spoke. Her jaw wasn't broken but it came close there. "And he made a promise to keep me safe so I wouldn't randomly lash out at others. But, then, all of a sudden, it was like a cage had been put around me. I panicked. I needed to get away and that's why I screamed. It wasn't the pain or the beating. It was just him, his presence, being so close. Like I was suffocating."

Saying the words out loud killed her inside. Too hard to believe that she felt that way, even for one second. She could feel the tears filling her eyes, not yet falling, and she buried her head in her knees. A flash and she was reminded of Peyton Riley, the same gesture of grief the girl had displayed. Harley was nothing like the sick girl but there was an unspoken kinship of disconcerted women in her head. A soft hand touched her hair. Thomas' attempt to comfort.

"There has to be another way, Harleen. I mean, you've been here for days and you haven't tried to hurt me or Geoffrey. You've been the very picture of restraint, well, mostly. Why do you think you need him?"

She lifted her head to look at him, her tears still lingering, unspilled, in her eyes. "You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself. You got a small demonstration yesterday but you have no fucking clue how difficult it was for me to back away from you. Everything I said, I really wanted to do. But I kept reminding myself that Mr. J wouldn't approve of my actions. I wish I could say that it had something to do with our friendship, but you and I both know better. Like I said, if I didn't have his words constantly in my head, you'd be dead by now at my hands."

"No wonder you freaked out," he said, removing his hand from her head. "I mean I'm not a psychologist but it sounds like you couldn't handle his physical presence as well as his mental one. It's one thing to always hear that inner voice, telling you he's in control of everything you do. It's another to have the hand literally reminding you of it."

"I never minded before."

"Yes, but you said it yourself. This is the first time you've really been away from him. You're seeing who you can be without the constant threat of what he'd do to you."

It strangely made sense to her. "But without that threat, how will I be able to keep hearing the voice that tells me to stop? I don't want to compromise who I am. I can't go back to being that dull, overly controlled waste of space I was before."

Thomas smiled, touching her knee. "Then don't. You're an intelligent woman, the only one I've had any real respect for." His sexism reared its ugly head. "'It is best to rise from life as from a banquet, neither thirsty nor drunken.' Find your middle ground, where you can stay in control and still be who you are. You don't need him."

She shook her head. "But I do love him. He's everything to me."

"'No one loves the man whom he fears.'"

"More Aristotle?"

Thomas shrugged. "He had wisdom. Do you truly love the Joker? Or is it just part of this mind game you two are engaged in? Clearly, you're afraid of him in some way. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here on the floor looking like you got hit by a train."

"I don't care about that," she said. "I don't care that he hit me. I don't even care that he'll likely kill me at some point. Remember, I didn't care that you nearly choked me to death. That doesn't matter to me."

"But what should matter is that something in you fears him, for whatever reason," he said. "The fact is that you panicked when he attacked you, regardless of your indifference towards your eventual fate. That's not love, Harleen. It never can be."

She opened her mouth to retort but closed it again as his words delved into her mind. Was there any truth to Thomas' words? She thought back to that night in Gotham General when Mr. J stole her away, after he first saw her true self. The moment that she realized she loved him. A secret from him, one that she would never speak aloud. Something so deep, so real that he could never share it with anyone else, not even the Batman. And he cried over it. The only time he ever had in her presence. Perhaps the only time he had ever done so in his life. An unforgettable moment that filled her with so much love for him. Yet, even back then, she feared him. Their original dance, the back and forth between them as she tried to heal his sickness. His prying words and hands, digging through her secrets as no one else could. And every time he got closer, she got more scared. Not of what he'd do, that outcome was certain from the start, but of what she'd become because of Mr. J.

She once told Mr. J that with Guy, the man who turned her into what she was meant to be, there was love. But in her id state, she couldn't really love him. More a remembrance of what they once had before he broke her mind. Could the same be true of Mr. J? Her mind wasn't fully broken when she knew her love for the clown, and yet, weeks later, she still felt the same, didn't she? The blur of her training with Mr. J passed through her head but she couldn't remember how she felt day by day, except the rage, the lust, and the fear. There was fear then. But was there love?

Damnit. Harley leaned her head back up against the wall. Her life was so messed up, turned around, she didn't know what to think or feel anymore. Thomas was thoroughly confusing her with his concern for her well-being. Who was supposed to be corrupting who here? She appreciated his compassion but she no longer wanted it. Before she came into his house, she was so certain of everything and now, it was a garbled wreck.

"I think I need some time alone, right now," she said.

Thomas nodded and stood. "I'll have Geoffrey drop you off some supplies for your injuries. And don't forget to take your antibiotics."

After he left, she sat there, numbly, trying not to think at all. She didn't know how long she sat there, huddled in the corner, but eventually, her need to move around outweighed her listless melancholy. Tired, but knowing she would be unable to sleep, she found Crane's journal hidden among the folds of the bedsheets, and opened it. A distraction for her weary mind. Away from the emotional for a little while as analyzed the book.

It was as she expected. Formulas, extracted from the science of his toxin, new variations. Scientific notes, utilizing his degree in psychopharmacology to the fullest, half of which she didn't understand. A little too heady for her as it wasn't her field of study. Pompous journal entries fully of logical evaluations of his incarceration at Arkham. Everything was mixed with feral drawings and the bold lettering of his alter ego, Scarecrow. Less frequent in the earlier writings, growing more and more prominent as the journal continued. A sign of his Dissociative Identity Disorder becoming worse as the days passed.

For Harley, the writing only became interesting once he began to write of her. A couple of early mentions were unflattering, Crane believing her to be an inexperienced hack who couldn't handle the toughened criminals in Arkham. But his later entries seemed to focus on her and her treatment of him after he gassed her and awakened her dark desires. Hate filled words, threats, mostly from Scarecrow, blended with his cool analyzation of her change from the cautious Harleen to the murderous Harley. He often commented on his left ear itching after the surgery to reattach it. His notes became bitter. He truly despised Harley for what she had done, but at the same time, he also lay the blame on himself for not taking more precautions, sucked into the moment by the Joker.

The last few entries mentioned that Crane had found a means to escape but did not detail a plan. The Scarecrow's words were clear. Vengeance. Harley already knew all that. As she reached the last page, she was surprised to find it torn out. Crane had some OCD issues so it was rare that he would deface a book as such. But she could see the writing had been hard enough to leave an impression on the next blank page. She grabbed a pencil from a cup on the nightstand and lightly rubbed over the pattern on the page. When she was done, Harley looked at the words and numbers, recognizing them instantly as a feeling of suspense and foreboding passed through her.

Thomas Elliot's home address.

She opened her mouth to call for Thomas, to alert him to the danger he was in. But a loud crash from downstairs stopped her, a sound familiar to her criminal mind. The sound of wood splintering. Someone had broken down the front door.

Things were about to get interesting.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry about the long wait, folks. I had a bitch of a time trying to write this chapter. I must have rewritten this about five times. This is the last we'll see of Mr. J's perspective for awhile as the story is more about Harley's journey. Anyways, thank you for your continued support and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Questions, comments, feedback? Please review.**


	8. Your Choice

Chapter Eight: Your Choice

Stealth, Harley found, was quite difficult when injured. Her steps were silent but her form was awkward, unable to slip into the small cracks as she normally would. Even without the thrashing offered by Mr. J, she was still weak. And she didn't know the mansion's layout too well. Half-remembered from years prior combined with her limited interaction in the past few days. Improvised weapons were plenty but she knew she didn't have the strength to make use of them, not as she normally would. Despite all, she heard her lover's words in her ear. Dangerous and underestimated. Crane would not underestimate her, but judging by the multitude of footsteps below, he wasn't alone. More importantly, they didn't know her. An advantage to her as Crane was a coward. He wouldn't directly confront her if he had another option available. So, she would be facing the minions.

Peering down the cascading, circular stairs as she planned her next move, she was startled by the hand that covered her mouth. No one had made it up the stairs yet, so she assumed it was either Thomas or Geoffrey. She turned her head to confirm Thomas' presence and nodded. The hand released and he jerked his head in a direction. Silently, she followed him into a bedroom. Judging by the wall hangings, the color scheme, the books, and the rumpled bedding, it had to be his room.

Thomas kept his voice low, an almost hiss. "What the hell is going on?"

"Jonathan Crane has come for me," she responded, while looking around the room. "Do you have any decent weapons in here?"

Thomas shook his head. "Everything would be down on the first floor. Why is he after you?"

"I kind of tortured him for a couple of hours and now he's looking for payback." Her tone was casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harley walked around the room, looking for anything that could be a decent weapon. She spotted a letter opener lying on a small secretary on the eastern wall and snagged it. She tested the edge against a finger. Not perfect but sharp enough. "This will do."

"What are we going to do?"

"You," she said, walking back to him, "are going to do nothing. You are going to barricade this room after I leave. No matter what happens, do not leave the room, even if you hear gunfire. I'll be fine. Crane will want me alive. And if I should get taken, call Mr. J."

Thomas stared at her. She could see his inner white knight struggling inside him, worried for the safety of the poor, injured female. "You're going out there alone?"

"Hell yeah," she smiled wildly at him, giving him a taste of her demons. "I'm going to show those boys a real good time, Harley Quinn style."

"Harleen, I can't just stand by and do nothing," Thomas grasped her shoulders. "Let me help."

"No." She stared up at him. "Thomas, I know you got my back, but this is the big boys club now, not amateur hour. Unless you can find that inner fire, that monster inside, you'll just get yourself killed."

"What makes you think you can handle this? You're barely standing."

Harley leaned forward to kiss his cheek, laughing against his skin. "You're so precious when you're concerned."

Then she flipped the letter opener in her hand so it faced downwards, lifted her shirt, and cut her stitches open, ignoring the sound of protest from Thomas. The wound was nearly healed but pressing harshly against the opening, she was able to coax blood from it. Smiling at Thomas' dumbfounded expression, she said, "No expects the injured animal to lash out."

Thankful she was wearing her yellow pajamas, she pushed the material against the wound, letting the blood soak through. Very visible against the pale coloring. By the time she got back to her room, she would look sufficiently damaged enough to be thought of as prey. Dangerous and underestimated. Harley relished the pain that shuddered through her body. Resisting the urge to make Thomas her new plaything, she nodded to him, exiting the room. She heard the door close behind her. At least he could follow instructions.

Their conversation cost her time, as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Scrapping Plan A to be in her bedroom when they found her, she fled to the lounge instead, laying herself on one of the couches face down. She slid the letter opener between her arm and her body, hiding it from sight. With any luck, her pursuers would be confused by her present state.

It didn't take long for someone to approach her. Pretending to be unconscious, she was turned over, her body limp and pliable. "I think I found her!"

Another set of footsteps came. A different voice. Not Crane, not a surprise. "Yeah, that's her. Looks like shit."

"She's bleeding," the first guy said. "Someone else get up here first?"

"Who fucking cares. All I know is I'm not carrying her. God knows what diseases she picked up from the clown," the second guy said.

It took everything in her not to start laughing at the comment. Since it was clear they weren't going to pick her up anytime soon, Harley moaned softly, as if their voices were rousing her. "Mr. J? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." She forced her voice to be fragile, hoping the goons would take the bait.

"What's she saying?" The second guy's voice sounded closer.

"Something about being sorry. Think she's on drugs or something."

She needed a better look at their positioning, weapons, so she allowed her eyes to flutter open, squinting at the men. "Is that you, Mr. J? Come closer. Your Harley has a present for you."

Harley smiled on the inside as she began to rub her breasts, continuing the pretense that she was drugged up and semi-conscious.. Men were easy to manipulate, especially in the criminal field. Tits and ass got them all going. It was why so many of the criminals in the city either owned or frequented strip clubs. Through her squinted vision, she could see the men were unsure of what to do but curiosity flared in both of their eyes. On the one hand, she was bleeding and injured. On the other, she was still a woman. Carefully, she scanned them for weapons. The second man had a gun ready in his left hand, the first one's was holstered in a shoulder rig, under his arm.

After a few seconds, she knew they were in the best position for her advantage and she smiled up at the first one. "I think you have something in your eye," she said, with a light laugh, before grasping the handle of the letter and jabbing it into his eye socket. He screamed out in pain, collapsing over her, the perfect angle for Harley to grab his gun.

The second man, likely surprised by the sudden change of events, raised his weapon, firing three random shots at her position on the couch. He failed to hit her, his colleague's screaming body blocking the bullets path. Two of the shots implanted into the first man, the third splashing into the sofa, bits of fluff flying. One down. The body slumped further on top of her and she used the cover of his corpse to return fire, catching the second man's shoulder and kneecap. The second man dropped to the floor. With more effort than she would normally need, she pushed the dead man off her, yanking the letter opener from his eye socket. The eyeball came with it, still attached to the optic nerve. With a frown, she peeled the eye from the blade, watching it flop loosely against the dead man's cheek.

"Ugh, eye goo. Gross." Harley wiped the letter opener on her pajama bottoms. A glance over to the second man revealed him straining to lift his gun in her direction while lying on the floor. "Bad puppy." She stomped on his gun hand, forcing him to release his grip on the weapon, which she promptly kicked away from his body. Harley, then, dropped to her knees, tracing letter opener over his face. Properly scared, just the expression she liked. "We don't have much time since I'm sure your friends heard our little squabble. So here's the deal. Tell me how many of you there are and I'll let you live. Don't tell me, and I'll make your death last for a long, long time. Your choice."

"Ten," the man gasped out, his eyes watching the dull edge of the opener trace just under his eye.

"Including Crane, yourself and your dead friend here?"

He nodded and she smiled, glad that Crane was a confirmed participant in the proceedings. As she pulled the blade from his face, she could see him visibly relax. "Good boy. Mamma's proud of you." She leaned down and kissed his forehead before stabbing her letter opener into his gut.

The man eyes went wide with shock as the sudden pain wracked through his body. "You said you'd let me live." His words were practically a scream.

She twisted the blade inside him, making him feel every last dull inch of the piece of metal. "I lied." Then she pushed upwards, watching the light fade from his eyes forever. Her body flooded with serenity at the feel of his sticky blood dripping from her hand, her inner demons clamoring for more. After wiping her hand on his pant leg, she stood, collecting his cast aside gun. She left the letter opener inside his body. Bringing a knife to a gun fight was a last resort move, but now she could fight fire with fire. Also, there was something innately bad ass about rocking the two gun mojo. Listening carefully, she heard more footsteps clamoring up the stairs. No time to hide. She rushed towards the staircase, intent on doing something reckless, the kind of move that only the stupid, or crazy would attempt.

Mr. J never credited her with an abundance of smarts when it came to strategy, but he did love to watch her try something new. Even though he wasn't present, she could feel his laughter ringing in her ears as she frog-hopped over the banister at the top of the staircase and splashed down onto the railing, landing as an equestrian would atop a horse. If not for her years of brutal training on the balance beam, she likely would have fallen. The speed of the maneuver sent her sliding down the railing, her inner thighs clenched tightly against the moving rail, barely keeping her balance, just as three men came rounding up the stairs and into sight. With both pistols up, Harley fired as quickly as she could, not giving a shit about aim, just hoping she would hit something and that the recoil wouldn't knock her over. Her high pitched demented laughter echoed through the stairwell, as she curved with the railing, hearing the thud of bullets slamming into flesh. And once again, she felt that amazing adrenalin rush that came only when she felt like she was flying.

As the railing ended on the second floor, she didn't have the time to prepare herself for the inevitable crash landing. The fall sent her sprawling face first onto the marble, the gun in her left hand tumbling away from her and out of sight. Harley had no time for recovery, no weakness, forcing herself to stand despite the throbbing in her nose that begged her to lay there and enjoy the agonizing sensation. Blood trickled down her face, nestling on her top lip. Nose was probably broken. Again. A nuisance but she refused to let it impair her mission.

Glancing up the stairs, she noted all three men were down for the count. Harley wanted to ensure the job was completed but a noise down the hall caught her attention. Another lamb for the slaughter. No doubt, the intruders all knew her current whereabouts, but she rejected the notion of rushing towards her new target. Primarily because she was injured and her adrenalin was barely keeping her standing. But also, because it created fear in her victims to know that she was so cool about her situation. Turning the corner into another hallway, she stopped, a gun aimed at her. Another lackey of Crane's. Harley turned her deadly eyes towards him. Young, nervous, likely new to the game. The sight she must have presented, all visceral and tenderized, had the gun shaking in his hands. Definitely new.

"Where is Crane?" She asked sweetly, leaving her own weapon flush against her side. No reason to agitate the shaky kid.

"Down on the floor, Quinn" the lackey said, the slight quiver to his voice removing any sense of authority. Amateur.

"No." She pressed forward until the gun rested against her chest, staring into the lackey's soul, mustering as much of old Harleen as she could. "You are clearly unprepared for this level of violence. I understand how difficult it can be. I was once like you." False sympathy covered her face. "You have a choice here. I know you have orders not to kill me, just as I know you don't want to fire that gun. So make your choice. Tell me where Crane is and I'll let you walk away from all this. Or don't, and you'll be forced to take your first life."

She smiled at him through her bruised face, seeing the uncertainty on his face. She kept her voice as empathetic as she could. "You'll see my face everywhere you go for the rest of your life. Always remembering the sound my body made as it fell to the ground, the gasping choke as blood filled my lungs. Wondering how you could be such a monster to take the life of a battered woman whose accusing eyes haunt your every dream. The guilt would weigh heavily on you, more than you can bear. You don't deserve that fate. But it's your choice."

The lackey sighed, her words penetrating his thoughts like a virus. Closing his eyes, he said, "He's in the kitchen." The gun lowered against her chest.

"Thank you," she said before knocking him out cold with the barrel of her pistol. It was a kindness, not that she gave a damn about him one way or the other. Yet, at the same time, her words made her remember her first kill, the mark still ticked into her upper left arm in memorial. She spoke truth that the face would never be forgotten. And somehow, maybe a small shred of humanity crawled its way into her, making her reminisce, making her leave him alive to make better choices. A choice she never had because of her broken mind. Bah. Her thoughts were getting too melodramatic, even for her.

Harley stole the gun that lay loosely in his grip, counting six down. Four to go, including Crane. The second floor was foreign to her, never having explored it. Se also had no clue where the kitchen was, but going down the main staircase was akin to suicide so she needed to find another route. Perhaps there was a set of servant stairs. The mansion was old enough for that sort of thing. She walked in the most logical direction, starting to feel the aches that threatened to collapse her into a pool of tortured bliss. This situation had to end soon or she'd be dead on her feet. Even she had limits.

A few white smudges on one of the doorknobs made her pause, wondering if Mr. J had rested in that room while she was recovering post-surgery. If so, Geoffrey was doing a crap job of keeping the place clean. But then again, it could have just been paint. It didn't matter. She found the servant staircase at the end of the hall, tucked into an alcove. Hopefully, the television shows she watched with old houses like this were accurate and it would lead directly to the kitchen. Thin, wooden steps greeted her and she doubted she could keep her footsteps silent enough to come upon Crane unawares.

"Fuck it," Harley said, and bounded down the stairs like a child at Christmas. It was the final showdown and she might as well use the last of her energy to enjoy it. She was stopped by a door at the bottom of the stairs. Kicking it open, she reveled in the sound of wood splintering for the second time that night. A soothing melody of violence about to ensue.

Both pistols up, Harley entered the kitchen, ready for anything. The bright gleam of the spotless room nearly blinded her, her eyes having to adjust from the darkness of the stairwell. She almost felt like she was violating a sacred space, her dirty bare feet touching the clean white tiles, blood still creeping down her face, onto her shirt. But she wasn't the only one committing kitchen blasphemy, she noted, spotting a man in the corner with his gun pointed at Geoffrey's chest.

There was no wait, no pause, nothing she could do except watch as the trigger was pulled. As soon as she entered, the shot was fired, as if the henchman waited for her arrival to execute the butler. There was little blood with the precise shot and Geoffrey's body slumped forward onto the tiles. Something about the act enraged her. Harley wasn't above executions or making a point, but killing someone who wasn't involved was just plain nasty business. Her rage consumed her, vision going red as she aimed her gun at the already moving henchman. She fired but was unable to hit the target before he escaped the kitchen.

"Son of a bitch!" She shouted, pissed that she missed. Her last burst of adrenalin hit her and she followed after the henchman, determined to take an eye for an eye. He led her through the maze of a twisting hallway, always managing to get out of sight just as she lined up a shot. Bits of wood and plaster flew as she chased him down, firing shots whenever he was visible. Frustration was beginning to take hold after her fourth bullet missed. But finally, the hallway opened up to a large room, some sort of parlor, a waiting room. She remembered, the parlor was just behind the main staircase. Several sets of double doors lined the room, leading to various entertaining areas. The henchman ran through one such set, the doors already open and waiting for him.

Harley didn't slow down her pursuit, despite knowing it was a trap. Her rage had gone further than logic or caution. And if Crane and the rest of his goons were beyond the threshold of the doors, then they would experience her wrath as well. She raced through the open doors and into one of the most exquisite ballrooms she had ever seen. Once upon a time, she had been to a party in the same room, but it had since been revamped into something out of a fairy tale. Lush velvet curtains hung, floor to ceiling, over the windows, a deep sapphire color. The walls were champagne, dusted with gold, creating a shimmering effect that was visually stunning, a true feast for the eyes. Past that, the room lay bare, no tables, chairs or any other effects. A blank canvas, ready to host a ball.

In the center of the ballroom stood two men, the last of the minions of Crane, her quarry joining them. Their guns were, unsurprisingly, aimed in her direction the instant she was visible. She paused in her pursuit, seeing the odds were far against her. Lack of cover, open layout. And the doors behind her were too far to escape unscathed. The rage that fueled her evaporated as she considered her options. They lessened even more as the men moved aside revealing Crane, hunched over a chair that held a captive Thomas.

"Hello, Harleen," Crane said, inclining his head towards her.

Cursing under her breath, she kept her guns aloft, not entirely sure who she was aiming for. She nodded back. "Jonathan. Long time, no see." Harley put on her best, friendly smile. "Looking good. Arkham's been treating you well, I see."

Without his mask, he seemed as diminutive as she remembered. Jonathan Crane was not a tall man, nor an intimidating man, but he made up for it in sheer ego, his arrogance legendary. "I wish I could say the same for you. You look like you're ready to collapse. Would you like a seat?" He waved his hand over Thomas' seat. "I'm sure Mr. Elliot doesn't mind giving it up."

Thomas was loosely bound to the chair, a bruise forming under his eye. She wasn't sure how he got down here, whether he decided to follow her despite warning, or if he was captured in his bedroom. It didn't really matter. Only added extra drama to the standoff. If Thomas wasn't there, she would have just started shooting, hoping for the best. But his presence complicated matters greatly. While she would have felt no regret in killing Thomas herself, it was another matter to allow someone else to kill him.

"Oh, I'm peachy," Harley said, cheerfully, refusing to admit her body's fatigue to the enemy. "But you know, feel free yourself. I know how exhausting these hostage situations can be on the abductor."

Their light-hearted banter confused the minions. She had to smile at that, as they shifted in place, waiting for something to happen. It was the sad thing about henchmen. They never really understood the people they worked for. And not a single one of them could see the anger that flared behind Crane's eyes as he stared at her. Cold fire emanating from him, his silent wish to tear Harley apart, piece by piece, in response for her grievous injury to his pride. And his body.

"So," she said, wanting to move this along before her aching muscles dropped her. "What's the play? We both know why you're here. How do you want this end?"

"I found it most displeasing the way we left things in Arkham and I believe you would be an excellent subject for my new toxin formula." Crane nodded to the henchman that shot Geoffrey. In turn, the henchman aimed his gun at Thomas' head. "One of two things will wind up on the floor in the next thirty seconds: your guns or your friend's brains. Your choice."

"Tempting, but I have a counter proposal." Harley lined up both her pistols on Crane. "I could just kill you now, Jonathan. And then your men will kill me, thus ending this crazy adventure with both our deaths. I have no fear of dying." She gave him her most demented smile. The one that unsettled everyone she came across. Feral, wild. Crane would no doubt remember that smile as she cut into him all those months ago. "What about you?"

The famous sneer crossed his face. "Your friend will still die."

"Yes, but the satisfaction of killing you might outweigh that factor."

"Do I get a say in this?" Thomas spoke up. "Because I really don't want to die."

"We all die, Thomas," Harley said, her eyes shifting over to him. "Suck it up."

His eyes pleaded with her. "Please Harleen, don't do this. Surrender and let them take you. Besides, it'll give you a chance to turn the tables."

Harley thought about Thomas' statement. She had been longing for a chance to toy with Crane again and with his goons surrounding him, she wasn't getting the one-on-one time she so desperately craved. And really, what was the worst he could do her? Pain was pleasure. Fear was a new experience. And nightmares were nothing but ephemera. The Scarecrow could never break her. He was inept, a substandard villain trying to play the game that Mr. J perfected so long ago. Eventually, she would overtake him, and then she would show him, for a second time, how a real monster behaves.

A slick tick of his eyelid betrayed Crane's surprise, as she tossed her guns down on the floor with a casual, "Heh, why not?" Her accompanying laughter was disturbing, even to herself. An omen of what she had planned. "You had better pray, Crane, that you don't bore me."

The minions approached her, cautious, as well they should be. Most of their colleagues were dead, or unconscious by her actions. They wouldn't underestimate her in the future. A piece of white cloth appeared in one of their hands. Chloroform. How cliché. She almost rolled her eyes. She didn't struggle as two of them grasped her arms. Truthfully, she no longer had the strength, but they didn't know that. Let them manhandle her.

"Trust me, I won't," Crane said, a ghost of a smile floating across his lips. "Oh, and boys, make sure you grab the spoiled brat, as well."

Harley's eyes narrowed at the order. "He's got nothing to do with this, Crane. Let him go."

"I do believe you're no longer in a position to bargain, Harleen." The superiority in his tone was aggravating.

"The name's Harley, asshole," she said just before the rag closed over her mouth and nose. Crane may have won this battle but the war was far from over. Darkness swam into her vision, the sounds of the room muting in her ears. And then, there was nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Whew! Glad to have this one done! Action is always difficult to write. I hope you all enjoy and please let me know if any of the action in this chapter was confusing. This is one area of writing that I am trying to improve. As always, thanks to everyone following this story and a big hug to all my reviewers. **


	9. Old Hat

Chapter Nine: Old Hat

Being rendered unconscious was becoming old hat for Harley. Even so, it was always disconcerting to wake up in a new location. The smell of chloroform lingered in her nostrils, the taste still fresh on her lips. Toxic, damaging. How many times had she'd been subjected to its effects in the past few months? Well over a dozen times, it seemed. It may have been cliché but it was an effective sedative, allowing her to enjoy a dreamless rest, no care in the world. She refused to focus on the potential negatives, her liver and kidneys crying out with toxic distress every time the chemicals hit her system. She would be long dead before any side effects took hold, a victim of the villainous lifestyle she lived.

Waking up naked was also old hat, a memory of her training with Mr. J. Most people shied away from nudity, embarrassed by their flaws. Anyone who looked upon her form would be taken in by the bruises, branding, tattooing, and scarring that littered her body. Revulsion, pity, many emotions that others would put upon her once seen. She fed on such things, reveling in the brutal display of human cruelty that permanently marred her skin. The power of her naked form outshined any minor flaws. Love handles, thicker thighs, pimples, all this meant nothing compared to the glorious destruction of her skin. Harley made a mental note to kill the rest of Crane's men who may have seen her naked. Mr. J's privilege only. Thomas and Crane were exceptions. Mr. J allowed them. But the rest were dead men walking.

Thomas' unconscious, and not naked she noted, body was sitting across from her in a chair similar to her own. He faced her, head slumped down over his chest. Both of them were bound by duct tape to their chairs, her legs closed together for modesty's sake, as if she cared. Her gunshot wound was covered again in gauze and tape and she could feel it itch. Restitched, most likely. Medical tape also covered her nose, annoying, but it meant it was only fractured and not broken as she originally suspected. Strange for Crane to tend to the wounds of his enemy, but then again, he was a professional and he would want her in top shape for the field trip of fear he had planned.

"Thomas," she said, watching the deep intake and exhale of each breath from his still form. "Hey! Wake up!"

Harley would have moved closer but the chair was either too heavy or it was bolted to the floor. Likely the latter of the two. She didn't believe anything would rouse her friend at this point so she settled for staring around the room. White walls, carpeted flooring. The kind of carpet that frequented office buildings, a dark gray, uniform color. Everything was bare, no pictures or décor. Not even a desk. Just her and Thomas bound to chairs. The ceiling was the same boring white, paneled with speckles. She'd always wanted to climb up through one of those panels, like in the movies, and drop down to attack someone. Ninja style. If she pried herself loose, she might give in to that absurd temptation.

Time passed and her boredom grew. Harley was unaccustomed to a life without distractions, her mind space becoming more volatile with each passing minute. Her emotions begged to be let out, crawling inside her, screaming for release. Anything but the monotony. She had barely been able to contain herself for the past boring week at the mansion. Her mission from Mr. J kept her focused enough to push past all the noise in her head. But right now, the tedium, the silence was getting to her. Even struggling against the duct tape yielded no real response. It was tight, not enough to cut off her circulation but enough to prevent much movement. It also meant she was unable to cause herself pain, a stimulation that she sorely craved.

After what seemed like hours, but was likely only twenty minutes or so, Thomas stirred. His eyes blinked away the effects of the sedative coursing through him. She watched with interest as he took stock of his situation, moving against the duct tape in a futile effort to escape his bonds. The haze in his mind cleared as he lifted his eyes to see her sitting in front of him. Harley smiled, giving him a fingered wave, as much as she could with her wrists strapped to the chair.

"Morning sunshine!" She kept her voice chipper.

He blinked again. "You're naked."

"And?" She shrugged. Her state of dress shouldn't matter to him, but he was still foggy from the drugs.

Another blink, confusion passing over his face. "You're naked," he said again.

"Not like you haven't seen most of this show before. Where's your professionalism, doctor?"

"Why are you naked?" He seemed fixated on this fact, much to her amusement.

Harley had to laugh. "I have no idea."

Thomas shook his head, as if to clear the cobwebs. A deep breath and he looked back up to her, poignantly ignoring her nudity. "Did he...did they...?"

"Crane is many things, but a rapist is not one of them. I doubt he would have allowed his men a taste of the goods, either."

"Thank god. Are you alright?" He asked, as his eyes flickered around the room, taking in their surroundings.

"I'm naked, duct taped to a chair in an empty room. It's like Christmas for me. You?"

His eyes met hers again, serious. "I seem to be fine. They knocked me out after they put you in their van. Have you seen anyone yet?"

"No, but I'm sure Jonathan will be making an appearance soon." She looked at the door. "No cameras so he's probably waiting out the usual time for the sedative to wear off. But at least I got me some fancy new stitches while I was down and out. Sexy, huh?" She wiggled her hips as much as she could.

"Lovely." His lips quirked up a bit at her attempt to lighten their captivity. "I didn't realize you had a tattoo."

Looking down her body to her right leg, she smiled. The explosion of tribal lines that spread out from her knee covered most of the leg. "Seemed like the thing to do. Surprised you didn't notice before."

"Your lower half was always covered. Does it mean anything?"

Thomas was attempting to keep his mind off his situation, she realized. She understood the reflex, a mechanism for coping. Harley would oblige, for now. Things would get very real, very soon. "Doesn't mean a damn thing. I just liked the chaos of it, stretching across my skin. Really, at the time, I just wanted to have the sensation of the needle piercing into me, over and over. But the overall result worked out well. Goes nice with the overall package, don't you think?"

He couldn't stop his eyes from wandering her body again, nothing sexual in his gaze. Curiosity, not sated during her first night in his care. "How have you been able to survive all that?" His voice held wonder, and a touch of disbelief.

"I've told you time and time before. I like the pain." Her eyebrows raised. He really didn't get it.

"But, it's so much damage. I mean, it's insane." He looked up at her face again. "This isn't just masochism or abuse. This goes way beyond it."

"I'm just another experiment gone wrong," she sighed with a small smile, looking away from him. "Don't try to understand. I'm not a puzzle or an enigma to be solved. I'm a force that can't be comprehended. I'm just me, the harlequin, the hellequin."

"Harleen, look at me," Thomas commanded. The words reminded her so much of Mr. J.

The compassion that flared as she caught his eyes was almost overwhelming for her. Harley couldn't remember the last time someone looked at her like that. Pity, sure, but compassion? It had been so long, so many years. A mother's expression when she told a young teen how mommy and daddy couldn't be together anymore. Thomas' blue eyes stared back at her, forcing her to relive all that came before. Compassion as a doctor shattered her future as a gymnast. Compassion as a coach told her to give up her dreams. Compassion as Guy watched her shaking after a session. Something so raw about it all. One human to another. Mr. J could never look at her like that. And the empathy that came with compassion was lost to her the day that she gave in to her dark side. But, deep down, Harley would give almost anything to feel it again towards someone else.

"There is something about you," he said. "Always been something about you since we've known each other. You're so much more than you give yourself credit for. In all my years, I have never seen someone who is both as strong and as weak as you are." Thomas paused, then nodded, as if coming to a conclusion in his head. "You're right, I don't understand and I probably never will."

"This is who I am, Thomas," she said, softly. "I accept it. Why can't you?"

"Because I don't want you to die."

The naked honesty of his statement hit her like a ton of bricks. Harley fought back the tears that began to well in her eyes at the confession. Other women would have taken it the wrong way thinking his words to be an obscure way of admitting love. No, he was just saying he would miss her. A simple statement. No hidden message contained within it. But it was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever said to her. A beautiful truth that she, quite suddenly, realized she shared in return. She understood, somewhere deep inside, that she had subconsciously given herself up to Crane so that Thomas would live, despite her conscious mind's desire for blood. Friendship. Damn. Thomas was good. In only a few short days, he had royally fucked up her priorities.

Before Harley could respond, the door to the room opened. Jonathan Crane strolled in, pushing a metal cart in front of him. Various surgical implements were visible but what got her attention were several vials of liquid and two needles. Fear toxin concentrated in an injectable form, no doubt. And his mask. Thomas was eyeballing the cart with trepidation, his fear palpable, coming off him in waves. Crane had a tight smile on his face as he glanced at the two of them. Control. A tight leash that restrained his darker half. She doubted Jonathan understood their similarities, his control as harsh as her own had once been. Unleashed, he could be a force to be reckoned with, the Scarecrow. Bound, he was just another man with delusions of grandeur. She truly hoped the Scarecrow would come out at some point.

Crane wore a navy suit, so dark it could mistaken for black in the right light. Pinstripes ghosting down the material, three buttons, white shirt, navy tie. Not the fitted suits of his glory days that she recalled, but appropriate enough, giving him an aura of dominance. Pride, one of the seven deadly sins. Yet so much more hidden beneath his surface. The need to see fear in others must have surely come from a place of childhood darkness. She could picture the children relentlessly mocking the gangly teenager and his depression, anger, at their taunts. The desire for revenge. Crane saw her as another one of those bullies and he wanted to demonstrate to her just how powerful he could be. Thing was, she didn't go after Crane because he was weak or pathetic. He was merely a convenient body to thrust her wrath upon after her awakening. Another man who just didn't get it.

"That color really brings out your eyes, Jonathan." She broke the silence, keeping her tone conversational and friendly. "You should wear it more often. Quite striking."

"Thank you, Harleen," he said, civil as always. His fingers grasped a needle and one of the vials. "I find the color to create a soothing connection between myself and my subjects."

"I prefer red," she said.

"Yes, you would." The disdain was evident in his voice. He placed the needle into the vial, letting the contents float upwards until the needle was half full. "I'm certain the Arkham reds will compliment you nicely in your future."

"Now, that's an empty threat if I ever heard one. We both know I won't be going to Arkham when all of this is done." Harley was speaking of her escape. Crane was, no doubt, assuming she would be dead.

"Correct," Crane said, moving over towards her. Unlike Thomas, he showed no care for her current state of undress. "Are you comfortable?"

"To be honest, no, but I somehow doubt you care."

"Correct again. And you, Dr. Elliot?" His eyes shot from Harley over to Thomas who had been watching their exchange, mutely.

"I have to use the bathroom," Thomas said, his voice small like a child. Harley almost laughed.

"It'll have to wait," Crane said. "Because you, Dr. Elliot, are up first."

"Come on Crane, this is between you and me," Harley said. "Why bother with the appetizer when you know you'll get a full meal out of me?"

Jonathan smiled at her, that slight raising of his lips that dripped with arrogance. "I have to make sure the new formula works and Dr. Elliot will be a good beta test subject." He moved away from her, taking the five steps towards Thomas and leaning down over him. "After all, Harleen is my star subject and I would hate to ruin her with an untested solution. You, however, are expendable."

Thomas met Harley's eyes, his fear still wafting off him like alcohol. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Crane could do as he wished and neither of them could prevent that at the moment. And something inside Harley held a sick curiosity as to what Thomas has locked up inside his skull. His fears. Something repressed that their simple conversations could never yield. Maybe an insight as to what drove him and explain the blood lust against his mother. Surely, with someone as complicated as her friend, it couldn't just have been about the money. There was some underlying motive that she hadn't wormed out of him. Perhaps Crane's toxin could. And, if it existed, she would use that knowledge to destroy Thomas, mind and soul.

So, Harley passively watched as Crane injected her friend with the serum. From the cart, he took up a recorder, turning it on. A quick glance to Harley made him smile. They were both psychiatrists and criminals. In this, they shared a kinship. A fascination with the mind and its darkest secrets, and the will to do whatever it took to unlock those secrets. She nodded to Crane, a sign of respect. As much as she fantasized about spending time carving up his pretty little skin, she did hold some admiration for his techniques. The science behind the medicine was something she never could grasp and his skill with it was quite remarkable. And while he might have considered her an inexperienced hack, per his journal, he did mention once that he was impressed with how thoroughly she delved into the mind of the Joker. Mr. J understood, even if he never said it and she never consciously intended it, that Harley had dug her way into his mind as deep as he had into hers. If she could do that to someone like Mr. J, she could do it to anyone. Crane recognized that, having watched the Joker obsess over her in the wee hours of the night from the opposite cell.

In another world, another time, Harley and Crane could have been great allies. Linked together by their passion for the mind, they could sweep through Gotham, tear it apart with the power of their intellect, their mutual dark sides reveling in the chaos before them. Crane, with his toxins, making people weep with fear and panic. Harley, with her keen insight, picking apart people at their weakest. Gotham could tremble at their feet, screaming and writhing in mental anguish. And it would only drive them further, to seek more darkness. In another world.

"Beta test subject has been injected with formula version 6.1. This version is liquid only, modified to create a semi-lucid state while still experiencing stable hallucinations and terror. This version is intended to allow the doctor to fully converse with the subject during phase two."

The formula must have been potent because the effects were readily apparent within minutes of injection. Thomas struggled against his bonds, his breathing shallow and quick. Harley watched in muted fascination. She had often witnessed the effects of fear, as both the creator and as a psychiatrist. The stomach churning, the heat against the skin, the heart pounding, the shaking. Often she touched the chest of her victims just to feel their hearts race, that knowledge that she was going to end them. For her, it was about the reaction. But she had never really appreciated fear for fear's sake. Such an elegant tool, breaking down even the most hardy of souls. Quivering masses begging to fly away from their source of terror. Thomas would get no such reprieve, the sweat starting to bead on his forehead. And then the screams came.

Thomas' stern face was twisted into something out of a Munch painting, the perfect O shape of his mouth as the cries poured out, jerking against his restraints like any asylum patient would. Eyes flickering between open and closed as the hallucinations hit his system. Crane leaned over him, watching every single motion of his reaction. This must have been phase one. The terror phase, when the subject was willing to claw their own face off to get away from whatever horrors they saw. With the starkness of the room, the screams reverberated and echoed until each one blended into the next, a symphony of dissonance. Harley closed her eyes and let the music of his screams wash over her senses, felt each howl vibrate inside her ear drums.

As the minutes passed, Thomas became motionless, the petrification of fear settling in, the prey understanding instinctually that they have lost. They hold ever so still, their bodies barely trembling with tension as they witness their fears come alive but they are unable to do anything but watch in silence. Thomas' mouth sat agape, his own personal hell that he could not escape. She suspected this was phase two. The subject would be more pliable without all the screaming. And if Crane's initial recording was correct, then he would also be lucid enough to speak his fears.

"Tell me what you see," Crane said, holding the recorder between himself and Thomas. No mask. Not yet. That would be saved for her alone. An honor, considering he was known to use it in all his so-called experiments. Thomas just didn't rate enough to see the Scarecrow.

"I...I'm in my father's study," Thomas gasped. "He's drunk, again, and yelling." His voice sounded younger as he spoke, reliving a childhood nightmare. "He has the belt. Mom is screaming for him to stop." The tears, that failed to form during phase one, gathered, welled in his eyes and came crashing down his cheeks.

Despite the severity of his mental anguish, Harley couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. Old hat. Abusive, drunk father. Useless, weak mother. Disappointment flooded her. She wanted more meat, not another Lifetime movie waiting to be produced. Another rich kid with the traumatic back story of abuse, who hates his mother because she couldn't stand up for herself. Granted, she had wished for a reason beyond the greed of the inheritance. Harley just hadn't expected it to be so mundane.

"He's turning to me. He's still angry." Thomas' voice became even smaller, as if trying to hide from the memory version of his father. "We're at the stairs. He has the cane. He tells me how mad he is that I'll never do better than the other kids. I'm stupid and worthless. Not worthy of the Elliot name."

For a moment, she thought back to the portrait of Thomas and his parents in the lounge and her feelings of loathing at its presence. The child had seemed so unhappy, his eyes lacking the luster of childhood, someone grown up too fast. And Harley recalled the faces of his parents. His mother, vivid red hair, a true beauty with her hand on her son's shoulder. Her eyes seemed sad, as if she had spent her life in a prison. And the father. The painter captured the coldness of his eyes with precision. The eyes of a man with no love in his life. For Thomas to escape that wretched existence, it was a miracle.

"And he's here," Thomas paused.

"Who's there?" Crane asked.

"Bruce." Detestation dripped with the word, squeezing through the fear. "He's laughing. Always laughing at me. At my failures. I can't be as good as him. I'll never be like him. He's got everything and I've got nothing!"

Yes, there was the meat that Harley demanded. Bruce Wayne. Back in her days at Arkham, she had attended a house warming to commemorate the rebuilding of the legendary Wayne Manor. After reconnecting with Thomas at that party, she could feel some minor hostility from him at the mention of the billionaire's name. She had dismissed it as mere rivalry between the upper class, but it seemed, at least for Thomas, it was was not quite as simple as that. No, he had a real hatred of the man. As well as fear. But was there something more to it than what Thomas was expressing now? She was determined to explore it.

"My father is laughing with him, now. They're just standing there mocking me." Thomas was scratching the wood of the chair he sat in. "I want to stop them but I can't. Oh god!"

"What is it?" Crane was pushing for as much data as he could get.

"He's handing the cane to Bruce. I'm at the edge of the stairs. They go down a long way but they don't care. They just want me gone. He's pushing me with the cane and I'm trying to grab on so I don't fall. I'll do better! I promise!" The panic in Thomas' voice was raw. "Don't jerk the cane away!"

The screams began anew. Crane sighed, straightening up again. He removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, an annoyed gesture. Phase two must not have lasted as long as he hoped. Or perhaps he wanted more out of the experience. Or possibly, a thousand other things since she didn't understand the science behind his serum. But for Harley, it was the breakthrough she had been waiting for. If she hadn't been tied up, she would have kissed Crane. Because corrupting someone's mind required the same leaps as healing it. That one discovery that put everything else into perspective. And now she had it.

The laughter burst out of her, shattering the ear-splitting screams of her friend. Crane's head jerked towards her, startled by her sudden outburst. But Harley didn't care. The key was found and she could now complete the mission set forth by Mr. J. Yes. Thomas would crumble, become like her, sate his desires. His mother was but a stepping stone. His real desire was to end the taunting voices in his mind. With both parents dead, only one thing was left standing in his way to true freedom. Bruce Wayne. Her laughter continued on, the maddening noise bouncing off the walls until Thomas' screams finally died. Then, the room faded to silence, eerie after the cacophony of fear and satisfaction.

When Crane finally turned the needle to her, she couldn't stop smiling as the toxin pumped its way into her veins. In a few minutes, she would be a drooling mess. But for now, Harley felt like she was on top of the world.

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><p><strong>AN: Would have had this up sooner but I didn't think editing while on vicodin was a good idea. Stupid dental surgery. In any case, I hope you all enjoy. Questions, comments, feedback, please review!**


	10. Harsh Revelations

**A/N: WARNING – Some of the imagery depicted in this chapter may be too dark or too disturbing for some readers. Fears are often something so primal that we cannot stop them from entering our minds. For this reason, Harley's fears will go to dark places. You have been warned. If you wish to skip past this, please start reading at the cut halfway through the chapter.**

**This chapter also references back to my first Joker/Harley story: Repression. References are made to the chapters 14 (Flying) and 15 (Choices). **

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><p>Chapter Ten: Harsh Revelations<p>

Flash.

Running, always running. The shadow of her pursuer haunted her every step. She was a rabbit being hunted down by a wolf. No doors, no windows, no escape from the hallway that always continued.

Flash.

A scarecrow with its torn clothing and straw limbs. Blocking her path ahead. Limp but mobile, the smile fake, the eyes harsh behind the mask. A clown next to him, green hair, charcoal eyes, a grin that jeered at her futile attempt to escape whatever was chasing her. Teeth so wide, too wide to be real. Laughter echoed in this never ending corridor of nightmarish images. Her heart pounded in her chest with every step, her veins pulsing inside her skin, threatening to explode. Whispers in her ear but she couldn't hear the words. She pushed the terrifying scarecrow aside, moved past the clown, for something far more frightening was right on her heels.

Flash.

The hallway ended, still no doors, nothing to escape through. Dead end. She clawed at the walls, praying to create an exit. She cried out in terror as something touched her shoulder. Corner of her eye, something hidden in the shadows. Her skin crawled as it ran its hands down her back, feeling every curve, every scar. A cold touch, something alien about it. Cool metal around her neck, locking in place, followed by a yank that forced her body backwards into the frigid shadow behind her. The whispers continued, a language she couldn't understand. The darkness wrapped around her body, covering her in its chill. She was a slave to it. The collar around her neck, the chain that linked it to something forming in front of her. Her pursuer.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

"You'll never be free," the controlled voice of Harleen said as she gripped the leash tightly in her hands. "You're the part of me I will not allow out."

Harley screamed in panic, tugging against the chain with all her strength, but Dr. Harleen was too strong. Her icy features enhanced by the glasses, hair in a bun, body covered. The picture of professional control. Her face was twisted into a condescending sneer at her darker half, the naked, wild Harley. Slowly, Dr. Harleen pulled at the chain, one hand, then the next, bringing Harley closer to her. A breath away from each other. Harley gasped at the cold smile of her former self before Harleen's mouth opened wide, sharp teeth. Wider still, the back of her throat was visible. Lips expanded to an impossible angle, descending upon Harley. Swallowing her up like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, until there was nothing left of Harley except the darkness and the chains bound around her.

Flash.

His arms wrapped around her, the lips of her one true love against her neck. His body pressed firmly against hers, hands in her hair from behind. The feel of intense pleasure riding through her body as he thrust himself inside her. Her hands and knees relishing every ache of the concrete she knelt on. She moaned and pushed back against him, her back arching as his hands ran down the skin of her back, lightly rolling over the fresh claw marks on her shoulder blades. She shuddered with the pain of memory, wanting him to dig in, recreate the marks and make them a deeper part of herself. So close. So close to that moment of perfection. Exquisite agony.

"Come on," she begged, encouraging her lover further. "You know what I need."

A memory, vivid and unique. A nightmare and a dream. Tables turning and life changing. Harley remembered through the haze of this illusion. The moment of revelation. The start of a new path. His hips moving against her ass, his fingers grasping her lower back. Pumping away, keeping her at the edge. Untold pleasure sweeping through her but it wasn't enough, never enough. She stared at the space in front of her, needing to end this, to complete the journey he set her on. It was her moment. Her destiny. She remembered it all.

He mocked her with his constant movement, in and out, in and out. Letting her ride the pleasure, never letting it spill over. She begged, and cursed, and screamed. Harley needed the release, but he was denying her, always denying. And he knew the effect it was having on her, his little experiment with her writhing and pleading. Laughing at her pathetic demands to end her torment. He wanted to see if she would do it, if she would take the knife that lay near her. If she would end her torture. From behind, he observed. Always his way.

Harley's eyes continued to stare forward, knowing what was going through his mind and through hers. His passive observation, her growing rage at her helplessness. His blade, close enough to take, to use, to feel. That was the purpose behind his motions, his denials. One stroke across her neck and her life would be forever changed. A chance to fly again. She remembered, even as she went through the motions a second time. The same words, the same pleading, the same cries. The end of her old life and the beginning of her new one. Her choice had been made so long ago. It was easy to make it a second time.

She reached to her side, grasping for the knife that he set near her. Except only the cold concrete met her outstretched hand. Confused, she looked to her side, the space empty. No knife. It should have been there. It was always there, waiting to be used. Waiting to change her life. But it wasn't. She was held by her madman lover, pushed to the peak of climax with no way of crossing over and letting the waves crash over her. She screamed, bashing her fists against the ground and turned to look behind her, her eyes accusing and angry. Betrayal for him to take this moment from her.

"Harley, do you trust me?"

The words met her ears but his lips didn't move. His eyes saw nothing, his body no longer moving inside her. The noose was tight around his neck, a blue pallor to his skin, his form hanging loosely from the beams in the ceiling. His hands fell away from her body, lifeless, dead, another corpse. The only victim that mattered. She could feel his seed cooling inside her, his cock as limp as his body. Horror swept over her, the sensation of her corpse lover still moving ever so slightly against her as he swung back and forth by the rope around his neck. Harley pulled away, screaming, pushing herself into the corner of this decrepit bedroom they shared. This didn't happen but it was happening. Her mind was confused, laced with turmoil. Guy was dead again, her love, her life, her everything.

Flash.

The leash tightened around her neck. Harleen laughed at her. "You're so pathetic, child, thinking you could outrun his death by becoming me. One day the marks will reflect what you did."

Pain flared through Harley, her agony reaching an emotional level, not penetrating to her pleasure centers. Torture, as her left arm exploded in blood. She looked down to see all the hash marks of the dead appear on her arm, bleeding but still recognizable. She see the face associated with each one. The largest, separated from the group was pouring blood, like tears down her arm. The mark for Guy Kopski. She touched it lightly, seeing his eyes staring past her. Her reflection no longer captured by his love.

Flash.

Bars, metal, cold. Everything was always so cold. The cage around her was stifling, suffocating, even with the air pouring in. The clown was toiling by his desk, reading some documents, marking some notes. Ignoring her, even as she bashed her hands against the steel rods until they bled from the effort. Naked, always naked, so he could see her for who she truly was. The demon, the killer, his girl. All her sins laid before him in sacrifice. Her soul was as bare as her body and he could always see right through her. The cage was just big enough for her body to sit comfortably, the bottom padded. The bars no longer were of steel, but instead changed to gold. Her gilded cage. Would he make her sing for her meal?

"You spend too much time rattling around in there, Harley," the clown said. "Have you been good enough to be let out?" The question wasn't directed towards her, more of his inner musings expressed aloud.

She tried to smile, give him the wide-eyed innocent act that never worked on him. If he wanted innocence, he never would have chosen a women such as herself to stand by his side, or rather, under his boot. He wanted sinners to accompany him in his symphony, playing the melody that he conducted. No room for errors in his chaotic music. Those who missed a note were expendable. Even her. It wasn't about perfection, that's what the rest never understood about him. His whims changed daily, plans never mattered. The design could be thrown out the window. As long as his sinners followed his charge, they would be safe. Well, mostly. And Harley was his queen of sins.

Sitting in her cage, she watched him warily as he approached humming some tune she vaguely knew but couldn't place. His makeup was streaked and cracked with the wrinkles of his face and she could smell the scent of death on him, rotten corpses and the morning dew. His gloved hands grazed the bars of her cage, a steady pinging noise as he moved from one rung to the next, circling her as prey. No affection, there never was. Cold, emotionless, the fluidity of the psychopath. She was not an experiment to him, but rather a toy.

"Time to play, Harley," he said, his grin absurdly too wide as his mouth stretched open, breaking apart his long healed scars. Blood gushed down his cheeks, sharp teeth, ready to swallow her whole if the mood took him.

She was terrified as he opened the cage, unable to move, to speak. He yanked her out and she suddenly felt so much smaller than she actually was, dwarfed in his presence. Strings attached to her body parts, arms, legs, shoulders. The clown yanked the strings with a laugh, watching her jerk with his motions. Her legs were moved into a dance with him, her arms wrapping around his torso with each tug of the strings. The humming grew louder, penetrating her senses as if the tune were alive. He danced with her, his hands far above her head, manipulating her every step.

Her mouth opened to speak, to tell him to let her go, let her fly away and be free but her voice was silenced. Instead, words that didn't belong to her came out of her mouth. Her mouth, his words, his voice. The nasally resonance of his tone, a tenor clowny sound. Her lips moved with the words, speaking his thoughts, his world, his mind. The same strings appeared on her lips, a doll, his ventriloquist act.

"I'm free," she said with his voice. Not her words, never her words, not anymore. And she spoke lies. She would never be free with his strings attached to her, his thoughts in hers, his hands twirling her motions.

As he danced her around the cage, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Harley was no longer herself. Dressed in the same clothes as her captor, purple, blue and green. Her face scarred with a Glasgow smile, red lipstick crawling up her cheeks. White greasepaint, smudged black around her eyes. Green dye tinting her long blond hair. A poor reflection of the clown she danced with. The strings were gone from her limbs but she still swayed along with the tune he hummed. His to command, his to rule, his to control. Everything inside her died.

Harley Quinn didn't exist anymore. There was only him. She was his pawn. She was the Joker.

Flash.

The drugs were wearing out of her system. The inevitable crash after the intense sensations produced by the Scarecrow. His masked face peering into hers. Although she couldn't see it, she knew he was smiling under the burlap, excited by her reactions, whatever they had been. The panic began to subside within her. Harley could hear her voice still whimpering from the dose, her fear induced memories still haunting her mind. Was this real? Or another part of her strange trip to psychosis-land?

A needle pricked her arm again. Harley felt her eyes begin to droop. The antidote? No, a sedative to let her rest before Crane went at her again. She could barely think between the exhaustion and the fear still lingering inside of her. The new drugs worked fast, her eyes barely able to stay open. Her head lolling as she looked around the bare and bright room. Just before she passed out, she caught a glimpse, something green, purple, too blurry to recognize for sure. But it would be just like her man to come watch the show, so interested in all her little quirks. Then again, maybe she was imagining things, leftover remains of her hallucinations.

Did it even matter?

* * *

><p>"Ugh. I feel like someone stabbed my brain with a dull pitchfork," Harley complained a few seconds after regaining consciousness.<p>

"You're lucky," Thomas said, still tied up in the chair before her. "At least he knocked you out. I had to deal with the splitting migraine that followed his drugs wearing off. It felt akin to having a star explode in my head."

She made a face, indicating her distaste for his unfortunate luck. "I'm sure my constant screaming, then, didn't help in the least."

"The wails of a banshee. You got a set of lungs on you."

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say that I'll be spending the next few weeks readjusting my ear drums."

Harley giggled at that. Her laugh-in-the-face-of-danger attitude must have been rubbing off on her friend. The cart was gone from the room, as was Crane, but he left her the gift of a blanket that covered most of her nude body. It warmed her against the slightly cool air in the room. She didn't know why he bothered, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Too many times, people became stubborn when they were captive. Refusing to eat, talk, defying their kidnappers. Believing that making concessions was giving up. But for all their efforts, in the end, it made no difference. They would have to give ground eventually or they would die. It was simply about who had the power. And right now, Crane had the power and Harley had no problems accepting that.

"Think he'll bring us some food?" She asked. "All that terror made me hungry."

Thomas shrugged. "Don't know. Frankly, I'm just surprised I'm still alive."

"You're alive to keep me complacent."

"Someone thinks highly of herself."

"It's true," she said. "He knows you're my friend. You were able to sway me towards giving up as opposed to going out guns ablazing. He'll try to use that later when I start getting rebellious. If you're dead, he loses that advantage and I lose all incentive to cooperate."

Thomas smiled. "Good to know you value our friendship."

"How many other people would put up with my bullshit for a week without trying to kill me?" She laughed. "Oh wait, you did try to kill me. Let me rephrase. How many other people would put up with my bullshit for a week without actually killing me?"

"Not for lack of trying," he muttered, a mischievous smile crossing his lips. Yeah, her attitude was definitely rubbing off on him.

"Eh, your heart wasn't really in it. And I'm too pretty to die."

Harley began to work against the duct tape. It was generally unforgiving as a material, very little stretch, but her struggles during her fear-induced torture loosened the material just a smidgen. Enough to give her something to do. Working hard at it, she might be able to free her arm. So she moved her wrist, up and down, back and forth. Thomas watched her movements with interest.

"Think you can get loose?" he asked, a little bit of hope in his eyes.

"It's going to take some time. He did a good job with the bindings but duct tape, unlike some other materials, is easier to manipulate. I'd have gone with zip ties." Constant motion was the key. Back and forth, like trying to get a car out of a snow mound. Little by little, it would be a slow process. To distract herself while working the bonds, she decided to pick at Thomas' brain. "So Bruce Wayne, huh?"

"What?" Thomas looked confused.

"Your source of fear. Well him and your father. Interesting tale your fears told."

"I'm not afraid of Bruce." Defensive. And not denying his fear of his late father.

"Maybe not, but you're afraid of what he represents. He's your baseline, your comparison. The one man you'll never be able to beat because somehow you think he has it all."

"I don't want to talk about this, Harleen." Thomas was closing off. A good sign that she was digging in to the right pressure point.

"Oh come on, Thomas. You're just as privy to my biggest fears as I am to yours," she said with a small smile. "I'm not ashamed of what you just learned about my fucked up psyche. There's nothing wrong with hating the man that your parents constantly compared you to. And nothing wrong with fearing that you're not good enough."

"They're dead," he said. "My parents' opinions mean nothing to me."

She continued to wear at the duct tape, moving her wrist millimeter by millimeter. "I beg to differ. They're haunting you, even now, from beyond the grave. Why not let it out, talk about it? It's eating away at you, I can tell. I mean, damn Thomas, how many times do I have to tell you that I won't judge you no matter what you say? I'm not like them. You can tell me anything and I'll support you, no matter what."

There came the eerie silence that often accompanied Thomas' introspective moments. Harley watched him, his eyes moving past her, looking at the wall behind her. A place to focus his thoughts and decide what to say, do, what he would reveal. She never lied. She would never judge him for anything he did. Even if it was the most fucked up thing she'd heard of. People did crazy things and who was she to throw stones? She hoped he would come clean. Because the longer she waited, the more she remembered her own nightmares that the toxin produced, and she wasn't quite ready to face herself yet.

When he looked back to her, she could see his walls crash down. Coming to terms with his own fears, his own pain. "My father was a drunk and a bastard."

"He beat you, didn't he?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

Thomas nodded. "And my mother. She just took it all like it was part of her job as wife. She never lifted a finger either when he came after me with the belt. Instead, she'd sit me down with old philosophy books, telling me the answers to all of life's problems could be found within. I hated it and hated her for making me do it, but I did learn a lot. My father was the epitome of the Aristotle quote 'Men are swayed more by fear than by reverence.' We both feared him. Too bad all that knowledge couldn't help me stop his rage."

His eyes were so lost in memory, lost in the pain, that Harley couldn't help but wonder, "Were you responsible for your father's death?"

Startled, he met her eyes. His surprise, followed by his pause, gave her all the acknowledgment she needed. She nodded to him, trying to convey her acceptance of the crime. No judgments. Thinking about it, she remembered Thomas' father died when he was young, maybe nine or ten. A car crash that killed his father. His mother lived. A young age for a first murder. How that must have molded his future.

"I cut the brakes on their car." No tears from him. Simple statements. "I couldn't take it anymore, the constant abuse and drinking of my father, the passive allowance of my mother. It was too much. I needed them out of my life once and for all, so maybe I could grow up without having to flinch every time I walked into our home."

A confession like this made her realize how little she really knew her friend. Sure, she must have sensed his darkness but this was darkness beyond even hers. Hers might be more visceral but it was powered by passion and emotion, usually spur of the moment, whatever suited her fancy. It was obvious from the deadened tone as he spoke of cutting the brakes, that Thomas' actions were premeditated, without any impulse. It may have come from an emotional place in the beginning but by the end, it was well thought out.

"Your mother lived."

"Thomas Wayne saved her life. She was crippled for many years with a broken back, living in home care as an invalid before she was diagnosed with cancer on top of it all. Nine years." He voice became angry. "Nine years I had to waste on her before I did something about it. After my father died, she was a better woman. Maybe her near death experience helped with that, made her grow a backbone. Or maybe it was because she had been poor her entire life and was willing to suffer through any kind of indignity just to feel comfortable. And without him, she finally could relax and just enjoy being comfortable. But me, she treated as a reminder of my father. A horrible reminder."

"So where does Bruce Wayne fit into this tale?"

His lips curled inwards, more anger, more distaste. "My father was so jealous of the Wayne family, despite calling them friends. Like us, they had everything. Unlike us, they were respected for all their accomplishments in Gotham. Even today, people talk about them like they're royalty. But truth be told, my family did just as much for this city as Thomas and Martha Wayne did. We built hospitals, and gave to charity, and so much more, but they got all the glory. I think my father placed his misguided hope that I'd be the crowning achievement of the Elliots and thus constantly compared me to Bruce, wanting me to always be better than him, so somehow he'd feel like he won in his private war against the Waynes."

Harley had to smile. "You are so much better than Bruce Wayne. Did you know that when Mr. J crashed the Dent fundraiser that Wayne ran away, hiding in a panic room?"

"I know. I was at that fundraiser."

"Really? Must have been fun," she continued. "But you? You've faced down my man and lived to tell the tale. You have balls. More than I can say for the arrogant ass who's slept with half of Gotham."

"He was always like that, you know? He knew what was going on with my family, how my father would beat me. He saw the bruises, was sympathetic, but did he tell anyone? Try to get me help? No. He only played at being my friend. A real friend would help, tell an adult or do something. Instead, he just watched me go through hell, day after day. I thought maybe after his parents died, he'd get some perspective, understand what it was to live in real pain. But no, he went away to boarding school, spending his money, living his life, not giving a damn about anything but himself. He never grew up."

It was easy to see where his resentment came from, although her logical side told Harley that Thomas was irrational in his hatred of Bruce Wayne. Kids who lost their parents would often want to get as far away as they could, trying to forget the pain of their pasts. And from everything she had heard about the Wayne family, they were extremely close and loving. It made sense to her that Bruce would depart Gotham. But it also made sense why Thomas hated him. He had never known the love of a real family. Just bitter disappointment. And instead of seeing Bruce's pain, he only saw the things he wanted out of his own life. The freedom, the money, the lack of responsibility. And of course, the absence of parents.

Thomas shook his head, his anger still clear. "You're right, Harleen. Even now, even though they're gone, I can still feel my parents haunting me. My mother still quoting Aristotle in my ear. My father still telling me I won't measure up to the Wayne family. I've worked my ass off to try and be better than either of them, to make the Elliot name worth something. And still, even now, Bruce gets all the press. He burned down his house, debased his family name, and still the media treats him like he's the best thing in this city."

Harley quirked an eyebrow at that. "That can be easily remedied."

Thomas stopped his pity-party ranting for a moment to look up at her. "What do you mean?"

She smiled. His explanation of his past was immensely helpful. A child never content with what he had, he always sought out more. Really, in the long run, the natural progression of his darkness was clear. "Normally, I would say, we should kill Bruce Wayne, but that would just make him a martyr, always remembered as a favorite son of the city. No, with someone like him, he needs to be broken. In order to show Gotham how pathetic he is, and how amazing you are, there is really only one thing we can do."

His eyes glinted, something looking like hope, excitement. "What's that?"

"We have to bring him down to our level," she laughed as she devised ideas in her head. "We have to turn Bruce Wayne into a villain."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry about the delay. I've been extremely sick for the past couple of weeks. But hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Please read and review! I love knowing what you all think of my work. Take care!**


	11. One Down

**A/N: Thanks for tuning in again! This chapter, again, refers back to my first story in the series. Specifically, the italicized scenes take place between Chapter 12 (Unleashed) and Chapter 13 (Resistance), if you want to reread anything. I hope you enjoy this longer chapter. Please read and review! I'd love to know what you think of the story so far! Thanks!**

**WARNING- This chapter contains scenes of torture. If this content disturbs you, please skip over the italicized portions of this chapter. **

* * *

><p>Chapter Eleven: One Down<p>

_The taste of blood in her mouth was pure ecstasy, feelings denied and pushed down for so long. Harley could feel the unshed tear that threatened to slide down her cheek as she lost herself in her past, the new hash mark in her arm paying homage to the death of her love. A final goodbye, a permanent space on her skin for the memory of Guy Kopski. Her sadness would end at this moment, filled with Crane's drugs and high on the taste of Mr. J's skin and blood. Almost as delicious as her own. The taste of freedom. She had been gone too long. _

_The muffled groan of her captive drew her attention and she giggled, her mood shifting yet again, a high pitched squeal at the thought of what Crane's pain would tell her. She bounded over to his tied up body, a grin splashed across her face. His mask was stuffed into his mouth as a gag, duct tape holding his body to her office chair. A present waiting to be unwrapped in blood and gore. She couldn't wait to make him feel her wrath and her gratitude for waking her up. And she was ever so grateful. _

_A quick look over to the discerning eyes of Mr. J, she couldn't contain her glee. "Why don't you go play somewhere else? This one's mine." _

_Crane moaned again, the sound unable to penetrate the makeshift gag. His sweat was delightfully fragrant, enough to make her lick his forehead to absorb some of his growing fear into herself, like a sponge. A quick slap of her newly acquired knife against his cheek, relishing the sight of his eyes opening, terror stark on his face. The former doctor saw his future reflected in her eyes. And that future was going to be full of agony._

"_You and I are going to have so much fun, aren't we?" Harley smiled down at Crane. _

_The door shut, Mr. J gone. She was finally alone with the man who brought down her walls. _

* * *

><p>Crane was humming an old tune while he leaned over Thomas, a light shining into the pupils of the bound man. What he was checking for, Harley wasn't sure, but she did recognize the tune. <em>Hush Little Baby.<em> A common lullaby, one whose theme was strangely appropriate for her friend. The child who was never happy with what he had. Always wanting something better, something more. Crane picked up on that little fact quick, reminding her that his degree was just as good as hers, and his mind just as keen.

Very little headway had been made on escape. The duct tape had loosened, but not enough to slip her hand out. Breaking her hands wasn't really an option if she wanted to have any hope of getting past whoever Crane had on guard. Thomas would likely be useless in any real confrontation. No points for effort. He may have been a killer but his kills were methodical. Escape was all about improvisation. Even if she freed her hands, she wasn't sure how to loosen the duct tape wrapping around her chest and legs. She was flexible, but she wasn't a contortionist. And while the cart was in the room, a free hand would only allow her a quick second of action and throwing needles wasn't exactly easy. Only one route to go to freedom. Too obvious but potentially dangerous for her friend.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Harley said.

Crane peered up at her, his icy blue eyes scanning her up and down behind his glasses. "No you don't."

"Fine, then," she shrugged. "I'll just pee here."

Shame, dignity, those were foreign concepts to her. She would do it, not only to prove a point, but also to relieve her bladder, all because it was in her instincts. And she would always be a creature of instinct. The smell wouldn't matter to her. Humans were smelly, disgusting creatures. Her past was littered with urine and shit, between her old fun and her medical days. Crane may have had the same experience in his rotations, but his OCD nature was well known by both the staff and patients at Arkham. He couldn't help but keep things as clean as he could.

Touching the bridge of his nose with a sigh, he called out for his men. "Untie her, take her to the bathroom. If she gives you any trouble, shoot her in the leg." His voice indicated that he knew this was a mistake.

Her blanket was torn off her body, the sudden cool air sending her skin into goosebumps. Her nipples hardened, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the two men cutting away at her duct tape. She could almost hear their hard-ons growing. Simple truth was that men were men. Ruled by the basest of carnal desire, much like her. It didn't matter to them that she was scarred and bruised. She was a hole. A very dangerous and deadly hole, but a hole nonetheless. The men weren't stupid. They knew who she was now. She doubted they would risk their lives to rape her. But the longer they witnessed her being just a woman, the more their defenses would drop. And Harley had no problems taking full advantage of that.

Their cutting wasn't perfect. A few small nicks from their blades caused her to groan with the sensation. Tiny trickles of blood beginning to flow. Another reason she disliked using duct tape. It was messy to take off. The tape was peeled away from her bare skin, rather roughly, more damage caused from ripped flesh. These boys were hitting all her turn-ons, making her performance so much easier as her sexual energy increased. When the final bit of tape was removed, they forced her to stand. Her limbs tingled, gaining back sensitivity, and she collapsed against one of the guys, her feet alight with pins and needles. The goon was startled, instantly moving his weapons out of the way of her reach, but she couldn't have grasped anything, her fingers still asleep. Clearly, he wasn't aware of the effects of bondage.

After a few moments, Harley was able to flex her feet enough to move. Walking would help the circulation, and she followed the two guys out the door.

* * *

><p>"<em>You know, I always wanted to be your psychiatrist," she said, slashing the knife down the front of Crane's Arkham prison uniform, deep enough to cut through the t-shirt underneath. Bare flesh, unmarked. Her own upper torso was exposed to him, the old scarring, burns, and branding so pale against her white skin. She always wished she had been born naturally tan, so all the markings would be highlighted more. <em>

"_Not permanently, though," she continued, "just for a few sessions. Really get into your mind. See what trauma caused your worship of the fear gods, so to speak." She ran her fingers down his chest, seductively before straddling his legs. "You have beautiful skin, you know. I just want to tear it off and attach it to my face" She laughed as his eyes widened. "I'm just joking!"_

_Harley punched his arm. "Don't take everything so literally, Jonathan!" _

_Outside her office, she could hear the sounds of chaos invoked by the riot. The screams, the crashes, the random gunfire. She closed her eyes and leaned into Crane like two dancers, enjoying the music surrounding her. Her feet, planted on the ground, swiveled the chair slowly in time with the stunning melody of horror occurring beyond her walls. She wondered which of her so-called colleagues were screaming, begging, or dying. She rested her head against his chest, barely hearing his fast beating heart, his muscles tense at her strange motions, his quick breathing._

"_You hear that?" Harley asked, her cheek pressed against his hot skin. "That is all because of you. The terror, the anguish, even what's happening right here with us. All you." She straightened up to look him in the eyes. "You should be so proud of yourself. It's like a mother giving birth. So natural, so magnificent, but also vile and bestial."  
><em>

_The knife in her hand caught the light of the florescents above her, shining into his face. Her words brought forth feelings of resentment inside herself, angry at Crane because he could never understand. Another emotional change. "But you're not a woman. You can never really experience pregnancy and birth. But I can help you with that." A wicked grin formed on her lips. "You must learn that being a mother is riddled with true agony."  
><em>

_The gag didn't diminish the effect of his screams._

* * *

><p>The building was indeed an empty office building as suspected, well-used furniture, cubicles, offices littering her view as she was marched down the main aisle. Likely another victim of economic trouble, the original company having left for greener, or rather poorer, pastures. The windows were covered, no magic reveal of where she and Thomas were being held, but chances were, it was right in the heart of downtown. Just outside the door, the man who killed Geoffrey stood guard. The last of Crane's men, unless he had hired some more she hadn't seen. Passing the rows of empty cubicles, she had to smile at the absurdity of a naked woman being led through this bastion of business at gunpoint. No wonder the police could never find the criminals. They were all stationed in corporate America.<p>

When they reached the womens restroom, the men joined her inside. She didn't object to their presence, as modest women would, knowing that arguing would only lead to further distrust. And she needed them to be in a cooperative state of mind. Plus, they had a job to do and she held some respect for that, being a lackey to Mr. J herself. So Harley entered the first stall, not even bothering to close and lock the door, and did her business without a word. In return, they watched her without comment or leering. She flushed the toilet, surprised that the water even worked. It should have been turned off, but perhaps the building's owners still paid the water bill in case a potential buyer came strolling in.

"Can I wash my hands?" She asked the men. They looked at each other before shrugging. She took their indifference as approval.

Walking over to the sink, Harley stared at herself in the mirror. Many of her older cuts and bruises from Mr. J had healed, the ones he had given her from before she was shot. But the fresh bruises from his recent beating still marred her face, her chin and cheeks purple and swollen. Her nose was slightly puffed up, the tape still covering the top bridge. The bandage across her gunshot wound was clean on the outside, no more bleeding through. She peeled it away just a little, to glance at her fresh stitches, the wound scabbing over nicely. Despite her ripping the stitches open twice, she was recovering on schedule.

Since the moment she'd been kidnapped, she kept herself focused on the important objectives, Thomas, Crane, escaping, anything but the dark recesses of her mind. The mirror laid everything bare before her, baby blue eyes haunting her, raw and real. A sadness behind her tough exterior. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, supporting her weight as her thoughts turned to the fears exposed by Crane. It was ironic that her old controlled self of Dr. Harleen Quinzel was so afraid of the impulsive murderer, Harley Quinn. And now, she discovered that her biggest fear as Harley Quinn was all that control. A walking hypocrisy. Always afraid of herself in some way. Being locked back in by Harleen's control. Being Guy's experiment in id states. And most importantly, being turned into Mr. J's puppet. Yet, she was still letting it happen, his voice penetrating her thoughts, preventing her from going overboard. There was reason behind his actions, the pleading of her former self, not wanting to completely lose control. She gave herself over to him. A conscious decision by a desperate and needy woman.

But she wasn't Dr. Harleen Quinzel anymore.

The choice had been taken out of her hands. Oh, yes, they were the same person deep down. Not like she was another identity disorder nutcase. There really was no separation between Dr. Harleen Quinzel and Harley Quinn. But there was a difference between who she was a year ago and who she was now. And that doctor side, her discipline, the side that pushed against all her darkness, made the final call, not even bothering to consult with her wild side. Agreed to allow Mr. J full access to her soul, to train, to humiliate, to take over everything that was real about her. She had conceded in the beginning, believing it was a valid compromise, but the longer she was away from Mr. J, the more she saw the truth. She wasn't free.

She wasn't free.

The thought kept circling her head like a buzzard over roadkill. She wasn't free. The anguish hit her as tears sprung from her eyes. She wasn't free. It was all a lie. Mr. J was just another cage for her. The only time she had known true freedom was after her awakening, because Guy couldn't stop her, couldn't master her. And those moments in her office with Crane before she slipped back into her restraint. She wasn't free. Harley needed that freedom. Dr. Quinzel was so worried about what she would do, who she would hurt, that she forgot how truly happy her freedom made her. Even when she watched a child burn by her hands, she was full of joy. She had lost that bliss. She wasn't free.

She wasn't free.

Anger overtook her grief, her fist curling up in a ball. Her eyes in the mirror became dark as the sea at night. They dropped to examine her chest, the J carved into the diamond brand that rested between her breasts. Mocking, insulting, keeping her caged. His mark, his way. Always his way. Always defined by him and his needs. Pure unadulterated rage took her, the J laughing at her ignorance, her captivity. She would be a captive no more. Tears of anger replaced those of sadness, and her balled up fist pulled back, slamming into the mirror with a force that drew surprised sounds from the men. Her image cracked, blood streaming down her knuckles. Pieces of the mirror falling to the sink.

Hands grasped at her, but she was not weak, not a slave. No one would ever trap her again. Her vision went red and the next few seconds became a blur. Blood sprayed, screams of agony before silence, thumps on the ground. The pain in her hand, the ecstasy in her body. A sharpened piece of mirror glass, covered in her blood and theirs. Throats slashed. No chance to even stop her. No one would ever stop her again. She would be free.

* * *

><p><em>Harley didn't know how much time had passed since she started. His beautiful body beginning to match her own. Crane was her latest masterpiece, every new cut showing his true colors. She bent down from behind him, her knife grazing his cheek lightly, enough to cause his terror to rise but not enough to mark him. Yet. <em>

"_The master of terror fearing a little girl with a knife. You're a coward, Jonathan. You always have been. You hide behind this demented scientist angle, always above it all, never getting down and dirty with the rest of us. Maybe Scarecrow does, maybe he gets it, but you never will." _

_She yanked the gag from his lips, allowing him to gasp in a real breath. "You hear that?" she whispered in his ear. "That's the sound of life. Every breath, something invigorating. Lets you know that you're alive." Her other hand reached down to one of his wounds, digging in, feeling the red wetness cover her finger, even as he cried out in pain. "You feel that? That's the pain of life. It may hurt but it's a reminder that you're here and now."_

_Her fingers moved to his face, painting his lips with his own blood. "You taste that? That's the flavor of life. When it's gone, so are you." _

_Crane wiggled against his bonds, his voice choking out, "You're insane."_

"_You don't know the half of it, love," she said, circling back to face him. "But I think if you did, you wouldn't have woken me up. Or you would have run when I warned you. But you stayed, so safe and secure of your place on the food chain. Not bothering to listen to the person trying to save your sorry hide." _

"_Please, Harleen, stop this." If Crane had the ability, he would have been down on his knees, begging her for mercy. "This isn't you."  
><em>

"_You don't know me. Hell, you don't even really know yourself. Not like I do. See, a man shows his true colors when he's at death's door. Some beg to stay alive, some try to bargain, some try reason or logic, like you. But the ones I love, the ones that I enjoy spending time with, are the ones who accept it for what it is." She down on his lap again, stuffing the mask back into his mouth. _

"_They give up, knowing the inevitable is around the corner. That they can't do anything to avoid it. It's like the five stages of grief. I'm sure you remember that from all those classes you had to take. They skip over all the other steps and move right to acceptance. Because they know, deep down, that the decision is out of their hands. They give it up to me. Allow me to take them where they will go."  
><em>

_Harley sighed, a smile crossing her lips. "There is something so sublime about it, you know? A calm, a break in the storm. It's nice to experience every now and then."_

_Crane wasn't listening to her, she could tell, lost inside his head. Perhaps having an internal monologue with his Scarecrow buddy. Instantly, her mood shifted again, away from her peaceful thoughts, back to anger. Malice crossed her face, bringing back his distress, her knife edging close to his ear. "If you're not going to listen to what I'm saying, then at least let me give you an excuse for your rudeness."_

_Sawing through cartilage was easier than she remembered._

* * *

><p>Red swirled at her feet, the blood pooling around Harley. Two more bodies. Flipping the piece of glass around, she dug the makeshift blade into her upper left arm, creating two new hash marks. Old habits died hard when she was finally breaking out of her shackles. Later, she would take the time to add precise hash marks for the rest, but for now, it was a start. Satisfied the wounds were deep enough to scar, she dropped the broken glass to the floor, leaning down to pull a blade from one of the corpses. Its gleaming surface would bring her the joy she craved.<p>

The screams must have attracted the attention of the door guard, Geoffrey's killer. She heard his voice through the bathroom door, asking if everything was okay, like a bad horror film actress. Mindful of what would likely be his next action when he received no response, Harley moved behind the door. When it swung open towards her, she slammed it back forcefully, right into his face. The blow knocked him down and she jumped on top of him, grabbing the gun out of his loosened grip. Crane really needed to hire some better lackeys. She pushed the barrel against his lower chin and smiled, all teeth, feral.

"Get up," Harley hissed.

The great thing about hired help was that they always worked for the highest bidder. Not getting shot by a psychopath was clearly the current highest bid, so he stood at her command. Harley walked him towards the office where she had been held, and told him to open the door. Beyond the threshold, Crane was pontificating at Thomas, a speech that cut off as soon as he realized the door was open. What he was saying, Harley couldn't hear, but from Thomas' unhappy expression, it was probably personal. Both their eyes shot up to the door. Thomas let out a whoop of delight at the sight of her holding the goon hostage. Crane looked pissed, a sight she had never seen before. His glasses gone. No longer Crane. Scarecrow had finally come out to play, it seemed.

"Cut him out of those bonds," Harley said to the goon, waving the gun in Thomas' direction. Again, the goon did what he was told, pulling a small blade out of his back pocket. She kept an eye on him, in case he decided to play games with Thomas' life, but she suspected he was smart enough to resist the urge. She would shoot him dead without a second thought.

"What are you planning, little Harley?" Scarecrow asked, the hatred dripping from his voice. Interesting. Scarecrow used her preferred name, a nod to her true self. Different and might have been out of some sort of respect.

"I don't really plan these things out, sweetie," she smiled to him. "They just sort of happen."

His blue eyes seemed different, not the cold apathy of Jonathan Crane. A hard anger resonated from him, his body slouched, his demeanor fluid, less rigid. And such darkness inside. A desire to see her scream again. Across the room, Thomas was flexing his wrists, gaining back sensation as she had. As soon as all the duct tape was cleared, she spoke to the goon, "Now give the knife to Thomas."

Thomas looked at her in askance as the blade was handed to him. The goon moved to the corner of the room, signaling he knew damn well that this fight was between Harley and Scarecrow, and he wanted to stay out of the line of fire. Two massive giants going head to head and the minions ran for the hills. Licking her lips, she gave no answer to Thomas' unspoken question as he attempted to stand, leaning heavily on his chair. Like her, he'd need some time to adjust. So she waved the gun at Scarecrow.

"Take off you clothes, muffin," she continued to smile at him, knowing her loving nicknames were getting under his skin. Jonathan wouldn't be so put off by it, but his darker side obviously detested the platitudes of familiarity.

His voice had even changed a bit, longer, more sing-songy words as he spoke. "And why would I do that?"

"Because I don't want to get blood all over my new clothing, pumpkin." She pointed the gun at his leg, her intention clear. "However, I will, if you force my hand."

Seeing no other choice, Scarecrow slipped his suit jacket off, tossing it on the floor. Another sign that Crane wasn't in control. He probably would have folded it neatly and laid it on the cart or chair. His tie followed suit, although she stopped him from taking off his shirt, claiming he should have some dignity. Unsurprisingly, he wore boxers under his pants. Classic repressed persona of his clean image.

"I already know your darkest fears, girl," he said, throwing the trousers on top of the jacket. He showed no outward signs of humiliation but she knew, deep inside, Crane was cringing with every motion.

She chose not to respond, instead craning her head to look at Thomas. His equilibrium and muscle motion regained, he nodded to her, holding the knife unsteadily. "What are you going to do with these two?"

"Geoffrey's dead," Harley stated, simply. She had waited some time to deliver the bad news, knowing his emotions would get the better of him and she needed him lucid for escape. Now, the reason to wait was moot. Thomas' mouth formed into an 'o' of shock. The two had been together quite some time, Geoffrey becoming his butler after his mother's death. They were friends, so much as one can be when employed by the other. Probably the closest person that Thomas had to family for his adult life. "I'm sorry."

It took him a couple seconds to digest the news before he asked, quietly, "What happened?"

Another turning point. Time to see if all her work on him had paid off. If she wasn't going to be trapped, neither was her friend. "He," she pointed at the goon, "shot Geoffrey, executed him, just because he could."

* * *

><p>"<em>I almost forgot to thank you," Harley said, holding his hand stable under her grip. "I haven't had this much fun in a decade. You brought me back to life and I truly appreciate it."<br>_

_She was perched, again, in his lap, staring at his perfectly manicured nails. It was a wonder that he could maintain such a polish while in lockup but being the good boy meant Dr. Arkham gave him some perks. Like a nail buffer. They were neat, clean, and short. No signs of biting. Crane was barely conscious, blood running down the side of his face, the cuts on his chest still bleeding. So much pain for one man to endure, yet he hadn't given in yet. It spoke of his resolve. Or his inner fire, the Scarecrow. She had yet to meet him face to face but perhaps one final incentive would pull him to the surface, let her see the evil lurking inside. No doubt, he would be a match for her intensity._

"_Now this is going to hurt," she said, as if talking to a child. "A lot. So please try not to move too much. If I mess this up, you might lose the finger."_

_Her grip tightened around his hand, extending his forefinger towards her. Like trying to cut a cats claws, his fingers against her but she kept him in place. Once a solid grip was formed, she slide the sharp point of the knife under his fingernail, lifting upwards in a tearing motion. A torture that would define pain in his book, the removal of the fingernail. The anguish passed over his face, his screams still muffled by his gag. Every little motion amplified his pain and she watched his agony grow. Simply breathtaking. _

_A pinch in her neck. A needle sliding into her. She felt the liquid pour into her veins. Turning, she saw his smile, his malicious intent, Mr. J at his finest. Darkness closed in, her ears muting out the sounds of Crane's screams. Or maybe it was her own silent screaming. Her mind clawing upwards to stay afloat. She didn't want to go to sleep again. No more being pushed down by the controller. But the medicine was taking hold, pushing her back into the darkness. Back to her worst nightmare. Mr. J was truly a cruel man. _

_The last thing she heard before she passed out was his sinister words. "Goodnight, Harleen."_

* * *

><p>The screams that penetrated the quiet office building didn't bother her, as she kept her eyes on Scarecrow. This was Thomas' fight and she wouldn't interfere. He had to make his choice and he would live or die by the decision. The rage that consumed him when she made her pronouncement was enough to fuel that fire of carnal instinct. The first sin. And as much as she enjoyed the violence, the sounds of flesh being sliced open, she willed herself to turn away. His moment, not hers.<p>

In front of her stood the lanky doctor, a scowl deeply embedded on his face. "You didn't answer his question," Scarecrow noted, his eyes occasionally glancing over shoulder at whatever carnage was happening behind her.

Harley shrugged, holding the gun on him. "I did, in part. Your henchman is going to die, one way or another." Another scream from the goon confirmed to her that Thomas was lost in his temper. "As for you, I'm not going to do a damn thing."

Her statement surprised him. "Very unlike you."

"Call it tit for tat, if you like," she said. "You may know my darkest fears, but now, so do I. That's twice you've given me a wake up call. So I thank you."

Scarecrow's eyes narrowed. "I'm still recovering from your last thank you."

She raised her other hand, defensively. "Hey, don't blame me on that one. It wasn't anything personal. Besides, you got your revenge."

"Hardly. Only a taste of what I had in store."

The screams in the background died out. She turned her head briefly to see Thomas standing over the dead goon, bloody knife in his hand, his breath rasping from the struggle and the deed. Another barrier broken. Every step in the right direction towards a future full of fire and blood. Thomas would never be like her, but it was a start. And Mr. J's words faded from her mind. It was no longer about corrupting him. It was about freeing him.

She turned her eyes back to Scarecrow. "I consider us even, honey. I got my rage and desire out in torturing you. You got me to scream in fear. We both got what we wanted out of each other. So, really, there's no point in being petty."

"He's not going to stop, Harleen," Thomas said from behind her. "He'll keep coming after you until he kills you with your own fears. Men like him never can stop themselves." Oh Thomas, always relating everything to his father. And yet, there was truth in the statement. She could see the fury, clear as day, waiting to strike, inside her enemy.

After a moment, she nodded. "I wish he was wrong, but you will never forget the damage I've done to you, will you? Or rather, the way I made you feel. I'm not talking about the humiliation, or the anger, but that side of yourself that actually enjoyed what I did." She hooked her leg around the cart, pulling it in front of her.

"Hold this," she said to Thomas, handing the gun off to him when he drew closer. Covered in blood, he took it without question, pointing it at Scarecrow. With careful hands, she took up a needle, sliding it into one of the vials on the cart. "You don't think I know, Scarecrow, but I do. You've lived your life as a target, always berated by those who are stronger. Bullies as a kid, Batman, even me. And the only pleasure you get in your pathetic little world is when you bring them down. When you get them to scream. When you know that they are just as weak as you are."

A wicked smile crossed her lips as she approached the man known as Scarecrow, his body tense, seething anger curling off of him. "You get off on it," she said. "I get that. So when I brutally massacred you, you were just itching to get your hands on me. To prove how weak I am, just to get your blood pumping. To get hard."

Harley delivered a swift kick to Scarecrow's abdomen, his body dropping to the ground as all the air whooshed out of his lungs. She leaned down next to his gasping form, plunging the needle into his neck. "In all seriousness," she said, whispering in his ear, "you really need to get a girlfriend." Then she pushed the liquid into him. "See you later, dear."

Laughing, she grabbed the clothes from the floor and stood up, waving her hand at Thomas. "Let's get out of here."

The screams didn't start until the door was closed. Slipping on the clothing she had procured from her kidnapper, she had to laugh. Everything was going so well. Thomas had proven he could be just as swayed by his emotions as she, murdering Geoffrey's killer in a fit of rage. Crane wasn't going to be bothering her anytime soon and she was looking forward to the next time he came knocking. And most importantly, she had rediscovered herself, determined to make a change in her life. It felt damn good to be Harley Quinn.

After dressing and exiting the empty office building with Thomas, she turned to observe the address. In the pocket of the jacket was a burner cell phone. Smirking at Thomas, she dialed the police. Before anyone could speak, she said, "Yes, hi. I've left Jonathan Crane at 1253 North Ashland, in office 345. He's currently suffering from the effects of his own toxin, butterfingers that I am and all. You should probably send someone to pick him up before it wears off and he gets away. Toodles!"

Harley threw the phone on the ground and looked to Thomas, a twinkle in her eye. "One down, two more to go."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Next Chapter...the return of Mr. J! Yay!**


	12. Something New

Chapter Twelve: Something New

The first rule of being a career criminal was "Don't Get Caught." As soon as she dropped the phone, Harley dragged Thomas into an alley, pushing him into the shadows. His bloody clothing would attract attention, especially since they were in the heart of the Gotham business district. It was night, cold, and there were few pedestrians about, but it only took one white knight to make a good crime go bad. While she didn't exactly look inconspicuous either, with her stolen clothes and messed up face, at least she could blend, likely as a wasted prostitute. Aware of the blood on her own body, she found a handkerchief in the pocket of Crane's jacket, and wiped herself down before wrapping it around her injured hand. And after giving Thomas instructions to stay put, she left him to scout the streets.

Finding a local bar and asking to make a phone call was easy enough. She ignored both the concerned and disgusted stares from the bar patrons, with great effort, knowing none of them would recognize her through her busted face. A great effort. Deep breaths. If she started carving them up as she desired, she would be enjoying a lengthy stay at Arkham. Damn Mr. J. She could still hear his voice in her head, telling her to keep cool, just make the call and get out. It was getting to the point where she couldn't tell where her thoughts ended and his began. It took everything inside of her to stay focused. His time would come.

Calling the emergency number Mr. J had made her memorize, she was pleasantly surprised to hear Livingston's voice on the other end. The youthful hacker agreed to send someone to pick her up as soon as possible. With nothing else to say, she hung up and headed back to the alley to wait with Thomas, huddling close to him for warmth against the bitter cold of the wintery Gotham night. Soon enough, a Ford Taurus with tinted windows pulled up, Doc behind the wheel.

"That was fast," Harley commented, as she slid into the backseat with Thomas. Her blood still stained the upholstery from the gunshot wound but it was evident that someone had tried to clean it up somewhat.

"I was at Livingston's," Doc said, looking at her through the rear view mirror. "And you have never looked lovelier." His sarcasm was searing.

"If you keep it up, I'll give you a matching set," Harley said. Mr. J may have liked Doc but the weirdo had never quite grown on her. "Wait, you were at Livingston's? You and her..." she trailed off, in amazement.

Doc ran a hand through his hair, nervously. "Not exactly."

"Then what were you..." Harley trailed off again, realizing the answer to her own question. "Oh, so no more Dr. Leland?"

"She still loves me, but she doesn't have pink hair," was all he said in return, clamming up on the subject.

Harley smiled, leaning back against the seat. As a covert schizoid, Doc had a tendency towards erotomania. It was unusual for someone with his affliction to switch his delusions of love away from his long time paramour, Dr. Joan Leland, but at least with Livingston, he had a chance of seeing something in return. The girl was almost as much of a mess as Doc himself. She wondered if he had started sending the hacker any love notes or gifts. Livingston was insecure, but shy. Harley had no idea what her reaction would be about Doc's intentions. The mental images of their potential awkward relationship amused her throughout the ride to the Palisades.

When they reached the Elliot manor, she instructed Doc to wait for her while she gathered her belongings. Thomas had been silent the entire ride, contemplative, but at least he wasn't freaking out. Harley stole discreet glances at him every now and then, curious as to whether he faulted her for Geoffrey's death in any way. Most people would have. Crane's men, after all, would never have stormed in and killed the butler had Harley not been on the premises. Granted, she wouldn't have been there if Mr. J hadn't insisted, so maybe Thomas blamed him. Scenarios ran through her mind of what she could do or say, but in the end, she decided that he would open up when he was ready. So she left Thomas alone as they entered his home, making the long climb up to the third floor, stepping over the corpses that littered the top staircase. Once back in the guest bedroom, she grabbed her bag of clothing, Crane's journal, and the antibiotics that Thomas had prescribed her. One final look at her sick bed made he understand that for all the trouble, this place had done her good.

Heading back downstairs, Harley spotted Thomas standing in the foyer, in the exact same place she left him, staring in the direction of the kitchen. She could feel his apprehension coating the energy of the room. Stuffing the journal and the pills into the bag, she dropped it to the ground and stood next to her friend, gently taking his hand into her own. He didn't pull away, merely looked over at her, his brow creased in worry and fear. No, his thoughts weren't on blame. They were focused on the horrific sight he would find in the kitchen.

"Do you want me to go with you?" She asked, her voice quiet but not sympathetic. Thomas wouldn't want sympathy.

"No," he said. "I can do this."

Harley squeezed his hand lightly. "I know you can." Then she dropped his hand. "I'm going to leave you my cell phone number and the number of a cleanup crew that handle these kinds of situations with discretion. Call me if you need anything."

After tearing a blank page out of Crane's journal and writing down the numbers, she left him to deal with his nightmares, knowing that she would only hinder him. Being alone would give him the time to sort through whether he wanted her in his life. Harley knew she was a dead albatross, destined to bring pain and suffering to those around her. A curse. Thomas would need to figure out if the price he paid was worth their continued friendship. Closing the front door behind her, she smiled, realizing that for the first time in a long time, she had made a decision contrary to what she believed Mr. J would want. It wasn't big, but it was a start.

"Home, Jeeves," she said to Doc as she climbed into the passenger seat with her bag. Her defiance made everything seem more sweet.

* * *

><p>To most in Gotham, the terrible housing market was a blight on the city. To the criminals, it was like Christmas. Banks would sell property at auction to the highest bidder, without asking too many questions. As a result of the heists that Mr. J pulled before his stint in Arkham, he had more than enough cash to procure multiple safe houses with very little hassle. Although Harley never confirmed it, she was sure Livingston handled the transactions, the houses under the name of the wealthy woman. Currently, they were holed up in a two-story, three bedroom on Gotham's north side. It was a culturally-rich neighborhood according to the internet, which really meant, it was impoverished and crime-ridden. Most of the residents had a good idea of who their strange neighbors were, but not a single one of them would say a word for fear of reprisal from Mr. J or herself. Needless to say, they weren't getting invited to any block parties any time soon.<p>

Doc pulled the car into their alley-side parking garage and took her bag without asking her permission. Despite both her excitement and trepidation in seeing Mr. J again, it felt good to be home. She followed Doc to the unlocked back door. No one would dare try to rob their house so none of them bothered with keys. The smell of baked frozen pizza greeted her and she immediately knew that it was a welcome home gift for her. She couldn't remember the last time she ate, so stomach grumbling, she rushed past Doc into the kitchen. Sitting on top of the old gas stove was the pizza she smelled, a six pack of soda on the counter next to the fridge. Immediately she stuffed a piece into her mouth, molten hot cheese burning the roof of her mouth, while she cracked open a lukewarm Coke.

Th gesture by Mr. J was almost romantic, knowing her needs so well. Moments like these were why it was so hard to see the cage around her. She could feel her heart singing with love at his thoughtfulness, but she forced those feeling away, understanding that it all was a lie. He gave her food because he was allowing her to eat. Part of his control. If he wanted to starve her, she'd walk into the kitchen and be greeted by his cold eyes, the shaking of his head and orders to go upstairs. Harley, now, saw this for what it was. And his demands would no longer have any sway. She would take what she wanted.

"Hey Doc," she said, moving aside to allow him to take a couple slices of pizza. "Do you ever wonder what your life would be like without Mr. J?"

Doc ate like a pig, folding his slice up and shoving the entire piece into his mouth. Still chewing, he shook his head at her. "I'd still be in Arkham."

Harley placed several slices on a plate and set it down on the island in center of the kitchen, leaning over her food. "No, I mean, right now. Do you wonder what your life would be like if he wasn't here right now?"

"That's easy. I'd be dead." He opened one of the sodas, leaning down on the other side of the island to face her. "Why you asking? Thinking about taking off? Or just questioning your life choices? Cause the truth is, barbie, the only way you can escape him is in a pine box. You know it, I know it, all of Gotham knows it. There's no leaving the boss."

"It's not that," she said, taking a sip of her soda. "I meant, what if he were dead? What would you do?"

Doc shrugged his massive shoulders. "Knowing me, I'd probably do something stupid and wind up back in Arkham. Truth is, he's the only one who lets me be me. Everywhere else, it's all drugs and judgmental looks about my so-called condition, but the boss treats me like he does everyone else. Better, even. He encourages my creativity instead of drowning it."

Harley nodded, understanding his sentiment, even if she didn't share it. Doc was free, as free as he could be at least, and he was happy. Even though it had only been a week, she missed the days before she wound up in the care of Thomas. The days when she felt the same way as Doc, before everything got so messed up in her head. Nothing cut deeper than that truth. They were both his prisoners. Only Doc would never see the bars around him because anything was better than the padded walls of Arkham.

"Thinking about killing the boss?" he asked, conversationally. "Cause if so, I probably have to report it."

She laughed, picking up another slice of pizza. "You should know by now that I don't think before I act. I just do things."

"You sound like him."

And with those four words, Doc had hit the broken nail on the head, exposing her fears all over again. She closed her eyes as she took another hungry bite of the pizza, shaking off the feeling of dread that was growing inside of her. She worried the moment Mr. J saw her that he would see inside her soul, that he would pluck at her growing determination until it reached a boiling point. He would watch her explode and then pick up the tattered shreds of what was left and rebuild her anew. Because that was what he did with his Harley. But maybe, just maybe, she could find an equilibrium. A way to truly be herself but still watch the city burn by his side. It was hard enough to pry herself away, demand to be her own person. She didn't want to forsake her love as well. Because despite all Thomas had said, she believed there could still be love when there was fear. And if she could break Mr. J's tight leash on her, the fear would dissipate. She just wanted to avoid total implosion of her entire life.

Doc, having lost interest in the conversation, grabbed another slice of pizza and headed down the hallway to the living room. When she finished enough pizza to satiate her sizable appetite, she followed his path down the hall, going up the stairs instead of joining him in the living room. Time to face her monster. Upstairs was quiet, a calm that often eluded the residence of the three crazies who lived there. But it was late. Mr. J was either sleeping or working. She passed by the closed door to the second bedroom, his usual work space. He would be inside. Choosing not to disturb him, or rather to push a delay, she entered the master bedroom.

Nothing had changed in the past week. Smears of greasepaint littered almost every piece of battered, used furniture. The same sheets clung to the bed, his pillow cover a mess of white, black, and red. Reveling in his lack of Harley, not washing his face before bed. While she she had no issue with his painted guise, his war mask, she detested cleaning the sheets every couple of days. One of the only things she had fought for against him and won. Sighing, she flung off her stolen clothing, not watching as it landed. She needed the feel of her own clothes, her own ways before she faced him. A shower was needed.

The water was like heaven against her skin, washing away the stink of the outside world. It ran red as the dried blood of her violent nature swirled down the drain. Harley stood there for a long time, beads of liquid pouring over her shoulders and down her back, watching the metaphor unfold before her. In this home, she was a different woman. She could feel the walls closing in, just as the blood left her skin, leaving her changed again. Just the mere thought of his presence, the maniacal, sadistic man, had her clinging to the mildewed walls, fighting against the silky words that caressed her thoughts. Demanding her surrender, to leave all thoughts of the world she wished for. Overwhelming her inner reflection of her nature, a seduction of thought. Mr. J, always the devil.

The inner voice stopped with the water, leaving her dripping wet and angered that he could invade every part of her so thoroughly. Slipping out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her head, she grabbed one of his tiny razor blades from the mirrored cabinet. He would not have every part of her, she thought, just before she sliced every kill, every face that haunted her memory, deep into her left arm. The trickling blood from the wounds had a sensory memory of power, making her resolve stronger. She could only laugh as she stared at her messed up face in the mirror. No smashing this time. She was ready to fight for herself.

Exiting the bathroom, her forward momentum was killed quickly by Mr. J, standing right in front of the door, blocking her path. No makeup caked his face this evening, his cold eyes even darker without the black smudged all around them. She opened her mouth to speak a hello, but he quickly closed the gap between them, slamming her clean body against the doorframe, his lips crushing against hers with brutal force. Instantly, her mind went blank, all thoughts of rebellion quashed, as she felt his need wash over her. It was so unexpected, that all she could do was accept his kiss and let the scent of his desire flicker in her nostrils. The pain from her injuries only intensified the lust growing inside of her, her hands running up and down his chest, as his hands gripped her head in a vice. The towel dislodged and fell from her head, a wet pile at her feet.

When he pulled away, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder with a breathless, "Hi."

Mr. J tilted her head back up to look in her eyes. "You need to brush your teeth." His lips formed a grin as he released her, backing away to lay on the bed.

Harley brushed her lips with her thumb, knowing his ever watchful gaze was taking in all the details of her changed body, looking for anything to use against her. She went back into the bathroom, pulling out her toothbrush. She debated if she was being weak by following his words, but even she could taste the decay in her mouth from lack of care. In the background, she heard the TV being turned on, the sounds of GNN as always. When she was done, she sauntered out, not sparing him a glance as she grabbed the med kit off their beaten up dresser. A necessity for their regular activities. She sat down on her side of the bed, pulling out various bandages and gauze to wrap her wounds.

As she began to wrap her left arm, she felt his fingers touch her shoulder. Bereft of his touch for too long, she closed her eyes and sighed at the sensation of his warm fingers on her body. Then his nails dug in and he shook her to grab her attention. "You've been regressing, Harley."

Hearing the anger in his voice, she wrenched herself free of the controlling grip of his fingers and stood up. The fire in her belly came back, but she kept her back to him as she spoke, not yet wanting to see the look in his eyes. "I've been doing a lot of naughty things, Mr. J. Maybe you shouldn't have left me alone for so long."

There was a short pause before he spoke again. "Basement, now." His tone was even, but the command had the force of his crazed rage behind it.

She turned, looking down at his relaxed form on the bed. At any other time, their positions would be a bedtime ritual. Her naked body, his clothed one. The dance, always continuing, always fueling their every move. His hands behind his head, hers folded upon her naked chest. Their eyes met and there was none of the usual playfulness between them. The tension in the air was thick as she made her decision. The point of no return.

"No."

Mr. J's eyebrows rose, ever so slightly at her refusal. Not a good sign. She could see his muscles twitching, his fingers curling behind his head. Death was in his eyes and Harley knew he would drag her down to the basement, kicking and screaming, if he needed to. Before, when she first arrived, she would have fought back. But in truth, she never gave it her full effort. That Harley wanted what he was offering, wanted the training, the punishment. But this Harley was determined to never again see that wretched place of horror and submission. Mr. J was about to see a whole new side of his girl.

Quick as a viper, he shot off the bed towards her. "Don't make this hard on yourself." His hands reached out to grip her neck.

Harley slapped his arm away, getting right up in his face. "Things are going to change, as of now, Mr. J." Fury guided her hands as she pushed hard against his chest. He stumbled backwards, catching himself against the nightstand.

Normal couples would talk things out. They would hear each others side and come to a compromise. But compromise, for Mr. J and Harley, was a weakness. Their relationship was built on power, who had it, who could keep it. It wasn't just about dominance. Their dance required so much more than that. Cunning, strength, manipulation, the will to win. And most of all, the ability to see inside each others heads. Her change would confuse him, not because he didn't know her, but because he had only had a glimpse of who she really could be. Because he had sculpted it out of her, Mr. J had never really seen her power.

His eyes met hers, as if trying to ferret out the secrets of her mind. "We both know how this dance ends."

"Do we?" And she bared her teeth in a grin that would rival his own. "Our dance has changed before."

"And you always cave." The corners of his lips raised, just a little. A dangerous smile, full of wicked promises and pain.

"I let you win because I wanted it." She took two steps back as he took two steps forward. "I was scared of myself, of my violent desires."

"Then ask yourself this," he said. "How many people, who would have died by your hand, have been spared your special brand of death?"

"Many," she admitted, his truth always cut deeper than his lies. "But I no longer fear myself, my actions, or my needs. Fuck the rest of the world. They can burn beneath my wrath. I will be free, Mr. J. You can either let me be who I am, or I will show you something you've never seen before."

Mr. J was a coin. Flipped one way, he was a creature of impulse, going wherever the surge and chaos would take him. Flipped the other way, he was an intellectual, a man who took in all alternatives before making his decision. The intellectual won out as he opted to consider her words. He scanned her up and down, looking for any sign of vulnerability, a flaw in her mind, one tiny detail that would give him the upper hand. Harley could see his mind working away at the new puzzle of her, trying to find an angle that would give him the advantage. But she wouldn't let him gain any leverage against her, understanding how well-matched and stubborn they each were in their tenacity.

After several tense minutes of staring down one another, he said, "Show me."

He immediately exploded into action, closing the gap between them to grasp her by her shoulders and slam her up against the dresser. Her lower back collided with the edge of the hard object, and she felt the pain stretch up to encompass her mind, but it didn't translate to pleasure as it usually did. It changed and vibrated inside her mind, bringing out her past. Something old, something new. When she told the story of her life to Mr. J, she explained that much of that year of blood had been a blur. That her memories had been lost in her desire and it was hard to distinguish between reality and her own fantasy world. A vivid dream, she had said. She never told him the reason why, though. He never asked.

The pain that pierced through her back, nestled into her mind, sending her vision red as it did before with Crane's men in the bathroom. Everything slowed down inside her head, her breathing, her heartbeat. She could feel the ghost of his hands upon her, holding her in place and readying himself for the next move against her. A move he would never get. The red fury twisted inside her head, its tendrils infecting her every pore. And she welcomed it as an old friend, losing herself inside of it. She allowed it to take her over and send her to the edge of her limits. There was no longer a sense of self as her mind was pushed beyond its capacity, until her rage bubbled up into a beserker frenzy. And she howled, a scream of pure unadulterated fury, directed at the man holding her captive.

Harley's perception fled her and the next moments didn't exist fully in her thoughts. Fragments only. Her teeth biting into his flesh, blood in her mouth. His fist connecting with her stomach. Her head whipping into his face. The mirror above the dresser shattering around them. Little cuts. Her body being flung onto the bed, hair pulled back. The glint of a knife. Slashing flesh. More pain. More screams of fury. Punches, kicks. A handcuff. A jerking body beneath her. His dark eyes staring at her, surprise behind them.

When her mind cleared of her frenzy, she felt the handle of the blade in her hand and the warmth of a body between her thighs. Below her was Mr. J, his shirt ripped and blood pouring from a slash to his chest. Both his hands were cuffed to the headboard. He was relaxed underneath her, watching her every move. She could feel his caution, neither of them moving. Their heavy breathing filled the room, the sweat poured from their bodies. Harley gazed down at him, knowing the brief confusion that filled her blue eyes, as she tried to regain herself, would add more gasoline to his arsenal of controlling Harley Quinn. He, now, understood her truest darkness. The beast that lay within. The real reason Dr. Harleen Quinzel was so terrified of herself.

With a purr of satisfaction at the tables being turned, she leaned down, grasping his chin with her blood soaked fingers. "Was that enough of a demonstration for you? Or do you need more, my love?"

Then, the devastating lust, that accompanied the aftermath of her frenzy, overtook her senses. To the victor come the spoils, and she would claim Mr. J for her own.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Just in case either of my stories wind up being deleted on here, both are available at the The Joker X Harley Fan Fiction Archive under the same author name. **

**It feels good to be writing Mr. J again. Their conflict is not yet over and the next chapter will be very interesting. Thank you all for continuing to read! Please review if you have a moment. **


	13. Love Hurts

Chapter Thirteen: Love Hurts

Harley's lips descended upon Mr. J's mouth, devouring his voice before he could whip up some witty words to wrest her from her lust. Greedy fingers tore at his shirt to find skin, his blood gathering under her nails as she raked them across his fresh wound. Unlike her, pain wasn't a pleasurable sensation for him and she felt his muscles tense under her from the onslaught, although he showed no outward sign of discomfort. Turnabout was fair play, she thought, as she licked at his lips. He was barely responding to her advances, his head turning with her lips as she kissed his scars with passion. His heart wasn't in it. But the slight movement from him was encouragement enough and it placated her.

Straightening up, she looked down at her prize with glee. He was not pleased with her, she could tell, but Harley was not put off by his disappointment. She had the power. His hands twisted within the cuffs, staring at her as though deciding how best to dissect her, his eyes occasionally flickering down her body with disinterest. Placing the edge of the blade at hollow of his throat, she smiled, reminded of their first lust-filled moment in her office when she made a tiny slice on his throat and followed it up by licking the wound with vigor. He hadn't expected the gesture and the arousal that he felt from it had been extremely evident, at the time. Ever since, it had become a ritual with her whenever he'd allow her access to his knives. Tonight, though, she would forgo it. Harley was determined to make this experience different than anything they'd ever shared before.

"I wonder if you still taste like pudding," she said, lifting her hand from his chest and sucking her blood-soaked index finger into her mouth. Savoring the taste of her reward, she moaned, her hips bucking against his pelvis.

"This isn't doing a thing for me, Harley," Mr. J said, his eyes as cold as ever. Stubborn Mr. J, always wanting to ruin her fun. To take control in the only way he had left and he was damn good at controlling his body's reaction to her.

Disappointed that the fruits of her grinding weren't blossoming beneath her, she pouted down at him. "I guess I'll have to work harder then, Mr. J."

She ripped the knife down the front of his shirt, tearing the fabric away, his scarred chest revealed to her eager eyes. She bent over, licking at his throat before her tongue trailed down his chest, tracing the edges of the scarring below his neck. His skin was magnificent to her, serving as a blemished reminder that she wasn't the only freak in the world. Crimson smeared all around his torso from her groping hands, turning him in a god of blood. She adored every curve of him, every flaw, worshiping his very existence with her hands and tongue.

Harley paused for a moment, distracted by a thought that crossed her mind. "Have you ever thought about piercing your nipples? That would be hot. I could do it for you, if you like."

"No," was all his said. His tone was unhappy, bordering on hateful even.

"Your loss," she said, before swiping her tongue over his left nipple. Many nights of passion with him had taught her that he was as sensitive to the gesture as she. The evidence of that became apparent between her thighs as she felt him tense up again, this time in a good way. Her tongue flicked across the tiny bud, drawing deep breaths from him, his eyes closing to enjoy her attention. Then she moved to the other nipple, drawing circles around it. A low rumble came from his chest in appreciation, like a tiger purring.

Stretching down over him, she directed her attention his belt, deft fingers removing it with ease. The leather slapped deliciously against the hard wood floor as it landed behind her. A quick flick to open the button on his black jeans, and then she eased her lithe body up an inch to lower the zipper. With practiced hands, she slid his pants down, barely enough to release his erection. Grasping it in her hand, she discovered it wasn't as full as she needed it to be. She shifted herself down his muscled body, pulling the pants with her as she went. Mindful of his free legs, she pinned them under the weight of her torso. She didn't want him flailing about while she was pleasuring him. It was amazing that an instrument that could bring forth such beautiful ecstasy was as delicate as it was.

With a smirk up to him, her tongue darted out, swirling around the tip. His involuntary gasp told her that despite his frustration with his bondage, he was relishing the feel of her soft considerations in every nerve of his body. Pleased with his appreciation, her hungry mouth took him in, tongue rolling against the sensitive point just under the head before she devoured him entirely. It didn't take long to get him rock hard and ready, a bit of his delicious seed trickling into her mouth like ambrosia. Mr. J always tasted like heaven to her, but somehow he tasted even sweeter, tonight. She cupped his balls gently in her hand, massaging them, as she continued to suck him in and out of her mouth.

His hips bucked up at her, his cock pushing back further into her throat as his tight muscles began to relax under her intense servicing. Her eyes occasionally shot up to watch his reactions, his pupils widening with each motion, pleasure overtaking his faculties. He met her eyes, and she felt herself melt inside. Since the beginning, it was his eyes that took her in, made her obsess over him, eventually desire him. His eyes that never left hers as she gave herself to him. And seeing them filled with lust, in this moment, created tingles across her skin and moisture gathered between her thighs. She couldn't wait anymore. Harley had to feel him inside her.

Lifting her mouth from him, a wicked smile playing across her lips, she straddled him again and rubbed her wetness against his cock, sighing in pleasure as her clit was stimulated with every movement. "You seem to be enjoying this now, Mr. J."

"A common gutterslut could do the same." His words were harsh but the demanding look of sheer need in his eyes told her everything. He desired her warm body pressed against his, her slick wetness around him.

She maneuvered her hand down between them, wrapping her fingers around his hardness, and placed him at her entrance. "I am anything but common," Harley said, before impaling herself upon him.

The feel of the penetration overwhelmed her senses with joy, filled to the brim with his essence. Too long she had gone without his presence inside of her, invading her core. She took a moment to revel in the beauty of their connection before beginning a slow, but steady rhythm. Her hands pushed at his chest as she bore down on him, adjusting only slightly so his cock could rub against the sensitive spot inside her walls. She moaned with every pass, her thighs widening further to take more of him inside her. As she began to move faster, the clinking of his handcuffs against the metal of the headboard grew louder, adding to the squeaking of the mattress.

Her hands rose to her breasts to tease her nipples, heightening her pleasure. Every stroke caused her to shudder slightly and she knew she was almost at the brink. Closing her eyes, she leaned back, letting Mr. J watch her in her pre-orgasmic glory. Then she sliced the blade across her stomach and the pain sent her over the edge into pure ecstasy. The knife fell from her grip as she shook with pleasure, lost in her own world of exquisite satisfaction. It was the strongest climax she had ever had with him, the surge of victory and adrenalin coursing through her veins. Her mind fled away from her body as the convulsions jerked her body around, screams fleeing from her throat. Her orgasm was powerful and transcendent, a mirror for herself.

She collapsed onto his chest, her inner muscles still clenching and unclenching around him, keeping him hard within her. Panting hard against his skin, she needed time to recover from the bliss of her climax. Cheek pressed firmly against his chest, she smiled. "Just give me a moment and I'll finish you off too, darling."

Evil laughter rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against her face. "No need," he said. "I'll take it from here."

Her eyes widened at the statement, just as his uncuffed hands closed around her throat. He wrenched her limp body off him, showing a strength that most people underestimated. She choked as his fingers dug in, wondering how the hell he got free. Knowing Mr. J, he must have had a few tricks just for such an occasion that she never considered. He slid off the bed, removing one hand from her windpipe, loosening his hold just long enough for her to take in a much needed breath before his other hand adjusted and closed off her air again. With his free hand, he pushed off the remainder of his pants, watching her eyes for signs of suffocation. His idea of foreplay often included asphyxiation, and her breath control increased with each passing session.

Harley tried to reach the blade that had slipped from her fingers, but a warning glance from Mr. J told her that it might be the last thing she ever did. She had seen that look in his eyes before, but never before had it been used on her. They had only played at it. This was the first time she actually believed he would do it. His eyes were full of rage, his anger sending tremors through his body. Harley couldn't understand the reaction. Their dance had always been a back and forth. He had never shown her such fury before. And then the memory hit her of the night in her apartment. The night he escaped. The night when she had canceled his therapy session because she was too tired to work that day. It was the one thing that she had control of in their relationship, their time together. And he had come after her in a rage for shunning him, terrifying her to tears.

"You thought you won," he spat in her face, releasing his grip to allow her a gasping breath before tightening again. "Do you know who you're playing with, girl?" He physically shook her by her neck to emphasize his words.

His free hand grappled her hair roughly, jerking her from the bed. Every instinct inside of her told her to run from his crazed wrath before he lost complete control of himself. Her hands yanked at the fingers around her throat, desperately trying to break free. All she wanted to do was get away but he was too strong for her. She would have whimpered in his grasp if she had the air. Instead, she was pushed towards the wall, where a support beam was embedded, its wooden surface extended out from the wall by a few inches. Above her head was another set of handcuffs, hung from a metal nail, making it easy to spin her if he so desired. It wasn't her first time standing there. But she feared it might be her last.

Mr. J's hand in her hair loosened, drawing down the side of her face towards her throat. Her fingers were still prying at the other hand there, in a futile attempt to breathe. Her body was weakened from lack of oxygen, so it was no effort for him to capture her wrists. As her vision began to darken around the edges, he released her throat, allowing her to suck in grateful breath, coughing with vigor despite her bruised windpipe. He raised her hands above her, securing her in the handcuffs and swung her around to face the wall. The balls of her feet barely touched the ground in this position. She was helpless. And at a madman's mercy.

Her head was yanked back again by the hair, his breath hot against her ear. "Tsk, task, Harley. Taking what isn't yours. You aren't going to forget this lesson for a long time. That is, if I decide to keep you." Then he pushed her head forward, slamming her forehead harshly into the wall.

Her vision ran red again, but this time from the blood that seeped from her cracked skull into her eyelashes. Sound became muted in her ears, a sign that she was close to blacking out. Although the gesture sparked her pleasure centers, she wouldn't allow herself to feel it, choosing to hang limply from the handcuffs in defeat. It wasn't a submissive gesture. Submissives begged for more. No, Harley was giving up. She had no more fight left in her. He could do as he wished, and she would let him. Because her heart was breaking inside of her chest with each passing second. She tried, she really tried. Gave him the best and worst of herself, showed him the feral beast that hid within her depths. Made him see that she could handle herself without his guiding hand. But the bastard was either too selfish or too damaged to let her slip from his control.

In her head, she imagined three roads in front of her. The first road led her to continue as the willing punching bag of the man behind her. She could endure that path and watch her passion wither away into oblivion. The second road led straight to death. Death by his hands, in this moment or the next time he lost his cool. And the third led to escape. A real escape. Not just hiding out in some motel, praying he never came looking for her. With or without him present, she would never truly be free of him. Although it tore her heart to pieces to even consider it, her only freedom would come with his demise.

Mr. J's hands wrapped around her waist, turning her to face him once more, his wild eyes boring a hole right through her, diving deep into her numbed soul. He couldn't stop himself, taking up his blade and carving into her stomach, softly humming a tune. The same tune she heard in her visions from the fear toxin. And at last, she recognized it as _The Bonnie Banks O' Loch Lomond._ Mr. J's tune wasn't quite right though, creepier. Hummed in a minor key. A song her father used to sing to her as a child. But that wasn't why it bothered her. It was the lyrics. The high road, the low road. Two lovers never meeting again. It sent a shudder through her, shaking the canvas of her body, much to his annoyance.

"Move again and I will write this on every limb of your body."

Even with her head hanging down, she couldn't see the word being carved into her flesh, there was too much blood. The ache in her body didn't radiate with any sort of enjoyment. It existed and that was all. She couldn't be bothered to label the sensation, just let it roll over her senses apathetically. He finished with a flourish of his knife, turning her back towards the wall again. Again, the knife sliced her open, just below the claw marks on her shoulder blades. She could feel his hands at her, cradling her body like an art project, the metallic scent of blood in the air. His tongue lapped at the blood when he completed his ministrations, his hands pulling her hips back to his waiting cock.

He entered her, lips grunting against her bleeding skin. The blood glided down her body on both sides, like water, tickling her toes as it dripped to the floor. His hands brutally gripped her hips with bruising force and despite her emotional numbness, his quick and hard thrusts were making her wet again. His movements hit her sensitive flesh within, deliberately, commanding her body to feel the pleasure he was allowing her to experience. The smack of bodies slapping together reverberated throughout the room, his pace never slowing as he grunted and groaned against her back, pumping into her as hard as he could. Unwilling, her body found itself on the edge for the second time, waiting for that final sting of agony to crash over. But even as her lips moaned her thrill, Harley knew he would never let her get there, keeping her on the brink as long as his stamina could hold.

Pleasure can be as much of a torture as pain, to some. Every nerve on fire, waiting for something to put put out the flames. There was a peace to be found in orgasm, a moment when the mind clears and nothing matters. Tantrics believed that bliss could be found before that final moment, but they had never walked in her skin, felt the way her body reacted. Everything until she climaxed was frenzied chaos and dripping viscera in her head. She shook against the handcuffs, her body needing that ending, but he laughed behind her, reaching around with one hand to stroke her clit. The gesture intensified her urgency tenfold, her body breaking into painful spasms. And it was real pain. A suffering that she had never truly felt in years. Mr. J finally found a way to break her completely, as she screamed with the torment he was inflicting upon her.

After what seemed like hours of anguish, he slowed, grunting loudly as he released his seed inside of her. A few more thrusts to empty himself completely and then he slipped out of her, spinning her back around to face him. Harley was near psychosis, tears streaming down her face from the pain, but now also, from the relief, the absence of his torment. His grin widened, staring at her lips before gazing into her eyes.

"I always wondered how you would look with these scars," he said, touching the raised ridges of his Glasgow grin. "Nighty, night, Harley." Then he slammed the back of her head into the wall behind her. Darkness clouded her vision and she fell into the dreamless sleep of limbo.

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><p>Harley expected the cold cement floor of the basement to greet her, if she ever woke again. But instead, the hard wood floor of their bedroom was the first sight in her distorted vision. She was slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle, but she was alive. Mr. J hadn't bothered to move her, just simply dropped her body from the handcuffs after he knocked her out, she supposed. Everything in her body ached, but it was the ache of the living, a reminder that he hadn't slit her throat in a fit of rage. Carefully, she got to her feet, fighting against the wooziness that threatened to drop her again and stumbled her way towards the bathroom to inspect the damage left upon her flesh.<p>

As she didn't feel her cheeks split or mass amounts of blood in her mouth, she knew he hadn't gone through with his final threat, but the mirror revealed a carved smile on each side of her lips. Gentle, almost a scratch, but enough to leave a brief impression. It wouldn't scar her permanently, though. His way of reminding her of what he was capable of, as if she hadn't seen the bodies piled up at his feet. Caked blood smeared down her face from the wound in her forehead, dried into a repulsive brown. Crimson streaked through her hair, both in the front and the back of her head. And although the bruises hadn't yet appeared, she knew there would be a purple hand print curving the lines of her neck in good time.

She wet a washcloth to wipe away as much as she could, rinsing and repeating until she could see the pale, almost translucent skin beneath. She had never seen herself so pale, dark circles under her eyes. There was no color to her cheeks, her eyes deadened as she watched herself. The blood loss must have been greater than she originally estimated.

"At least you're alive, girl," she said to her reflection.

Backing away, she looked down the mirror to examine her stomach where a word was carved into the flesh. MINE. Period included, to accent the word. Intentionally made to scar. She would wear that word for the rest of her life, never forgetting who put it there. The faded J paled in comparison. Her body was littered with tiny lacerations from the broken mirror. A slice across her shoulder, presumably from the same fight. And across her upper stomach, the cut she gave herself in the height of her pleasure. Harley reached forward to touch the mirror with a sigh. Never before had she taken so much damage in one day. She was a survivor, sure, but she began to wonder if some part of her wanted to die.

She turned to put her back in view, gazing just below the claw marks. The same letters. MINE. Trails of reddish brown cascaded down her body, all the way to her toes, but she couldn't bring herself to wash it all away. The blood was her escape, her constant companion reminding her of who she was living with. Her forehead leaned against the mirror and an enraged scream erupted from her lungs, her fists beating against the sink in frustration. She knew what she had to do. Mr. J had sealed the deal with a rage that refused to compete with her own. His need for control, for dominance over her had killed everything that had been good about their relationship. Her mind immediately went into survival mode. It was time to get out.

"Everything has an ending," she whispered to the air.

The bag from her stay at Thomas' was sitting by the door. Harley reminded herself that the antibiotics would be crucial in her current state and downed two of them, before preparing herself to leave. She pulled clothing out of the bag, slipping on a brown long-sleeved turtleneck, black pants, and basic black flats. Tossing aside any clothes that needed laundering, she refilled the bag with more clothing from the dresser, ignoring the crunch of broken mirror pieces under her shoes. Then she opened the closet. The smell that hit her nostrils served to remind her of Mr. J at his most deadly, his long purple coat hanging from the rack. Her desire to hug it, breathe in his scent one last time, was unbearable, but she fought it. There was no going back.

Her costume hung next to his coat and she stuffed it into the bag, dropping in a few extra pairs of shoes from the floor for good measure. Ferreting around in the back, she located her secret stash, a small stack of hundreds that she kept in the corner, along with her favorite gun. The cash, she pocketed. The gun, she kept in her hand. Sliding the zipper of the bag closed, and donning her favorite winter coat, she looked around the bedroom one last time, her memory begging her to remember all the good times. His caresses against her skin when he thought she was sleeping. The laughter when she accidentally set the drapes on fire. The way their eyes would meet in the bathroom mirror. But the good did not outweigh the bad, and she forced her feet to carry her out of the bedroom, closing the door in reverence.

"Goodbye." Another whisper, fighting back her tears.

The second bedroom door was open so Mr. J was either downstairs or not in the house. She was betting on the latter as his desire to do more violence would have sent him out into the night. She bounded down the steps, not bothering with stealth. She was itching for a fight, for someone to stop her and tell her stay, but all she got was a sleeping Doc on the couch. He looked peaceful for once, not bothered by the paranoia that plagued him, a pillow clutched between his arms. While she may not have liked the man, she wanted to hug him goodbye. Instead, she settled for blowing him a kiss before opening the front door.

The night was cold and she flipped the furry hood of the coat up, covering her head. The pinkish hue of the clouds in the sky indicated that snow was on its way. Harley closed the front door, leaning her head against it, her heart torn asunder by her decision. Then she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed towards the front gate. She paused when she saw Mr. J rounding the corner, a bounce in his step. Her instincts told her to run, to hide, anything but confront her abuser, but she was no coward. Harley would stand her ground, even as her heart leapt inside of her chest, wanting to fling her arms around him and kiss him. Her temper flared at her own weakness. Her love for the man she called Mr. J. Livid that he could infect her so completely, she waited stubbornly, folding her arms over her chest. Cradling the gun in her hand, she stared at his approaching figure with cold eyes that would rival his own.

"Ah, so you're awake," Mr. J said, his voice cheerful. His makeup covered face made her wish she had taken all the greasepaint in the bathroom as a final middle finger. "Leaving again so soon?" He motioned to her bag.

"For good," she replied, her voice icy.

"Oh, you can't fool me, Harley." He stepped closer to her, almost within arm's reach. " And you can't stay away for long. Pretty soon, you'll get an itch that you know only I can scratch. An addictive personality like you needs her fix."

"Well, I'm checking into rehab, you bastard. Now get out of my way."

Mr. J took a step back and to the side, sweeping an arm out to point the path away from the house. As she brushed past him, he grabbed her arm, pulling her closer to him. His hot breath steamed against the frigid air as he breathed in deep her scent. And his eyes, those deep black orbs that could pierce her very spirit, were full of mirth. Harley didn't resist this final bit of authority, meeting his eyes with her own unflinching gaze. Part of her needed that last touch from him, to prove she could live without it.

Always wanting the last word, he said, "I'll see you soon, doll." And his lips swept against her own for a brief second before releasing her with a superior look on his face.

As she walked to the sidewalk, she could feel his eyes watching her. Her inner beast, prickling at his easy dismissal of her, demanded payback. Harley was a free woman now, and she could do whatever she pleased. So she turned, smiling wide to show off the scratches that he carved into her. "Oh, and Mr. J? I just wanted you to know that I did learn a lesson I'll never forget."

Harley raised her gun at him, satisfied as the smug look on his face dissipated, and fired. The bullet grazed his leg as she intended. Mr. J fell backwards onto the ground with a grunt of pain, his eyes widened in both surprise and awe of her impulsive action. He looked down at the wound and back to her. She could have done far worse to him and they both knew it. The graze was a parting shot, letting him that she was no longer his slave. And the impression it left might just be enough to convince him of her next words.

"Love hurts baby," she said with a bitter bite to her tone, as the the first snowflakes of the evening began to fall around them. "If I see you again, I'll kill you."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode down the sidewalk, leaving her old life behind in a mental blaze that consumed her heart. It was time to begin a new chapter. One step at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The muse struck me this week, so you get to reap the rewards. Two new chapters in one week! Please give me some feedback on the strangely twisted smut in this chapter, if you have the time. It's an area of writing that I'm not sure if I'm any good at. :) Thanks! **


	14. Right Words

Chapter Fourteen: Right Words

The night manager at the hotel was very sympathetic, listening to Harley's bullshit sob story. The large woman, in her mid-thirties, held her hand to her mouth as Harley explained about the abusive boyfriend she had just run away from. Too scared to remember everything after he nearly killed her, she had left her identification and credit cards behind. She couldn't go back to get them but could the manager please just take her cash and give her a room for night? The bruises and cuts on her face sold the story more than her words. The female manager was shocked by the pitiful guest's condition, agreeing to give her a room off the record, as Harley figured she would. The trick to selling a lie was to keep it as close to the truth as possible.

With a keycard in hand, and a promise to consider calling the police on her ex, she went up to her newly acquired room. As she fiddled with the keycard in its slot, Harley amused herself by thinking how a phone call to the police, reporting Mr. J's domestic abuse, would go. Setting the bag on edge of the bed, she looked around the unsurprisingly average accommodations. It was typical for a hotel, king bed, nightstand, dresser, desk, TV. The smell in the air of chocolate, from the factory down the road, tickled her nose and heightened her hunger. While not as luxurious as Thomas' guest room, it was still nicer than her bedroom with Mr. J. A pang went through her as she thought of him again, but she dismissed it to focus on more important concerns. Slipping her cell phone out of the bag, she reluctantly called the one person who might aid her.

Thomas' voice was alert. "Hello?" Probably hadn't gotten a wink of sleep with Geoffrey's death looming over his thoughts.

"Hi," she said, trying to not to betray her exhaustion.

"Harleen." It was obvious that he wasn't happy to hear from her. "Why are you calling me this late?"

"I'm sorry. I just didn't know who else to call." She sat down on the bed. "I'm hurt and I need a doctor." Harley sighed. "No those aren't the right words. I need _you_, Thomas." Tears began to well in the corner of her eyes and she wiped them away with shaking hands. "I did it. I left him. I left Mr. J."

"Where are you?" His tone changed, concerned, urgent, sharp. She breathed a sigh of relief that he could put aside the conflicts in his head to help.

Harley gave him the name of the hotel and her room number. Ending the call, she sat there, listening to the hum of the heater while ignoring the tears that forced their way down her cheeks. Her mind was in a state of mild shock, numbed and unable to believe what she had done. She really had left Mr. J. Images flashed through head, settling on that final moment when she shot him. The look in his eyes just before she turned. God, she was so stupid to do that. And now, she was on her own, a wanted criminal without a plan or any thoughts of the future. The act had been too impulsive. Harley had no idea what she was going to do. Before, her life had a purpose. Sitting there alone, staring at an ugly painting of a duck, she had to wonder "what next?"

She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, she was laying sideways across the bed, her feet slung over the side like a child. Her winter coat was still wrapped around her body and there was pounding at the door. Her groggy mind barely registered that Thomas must have arrived and she went to open the door for him, turning her face away when his startled eyes took her in. The gesture wasn't out of shame, but rather out of her guilt for plunging him back into the incredible mess she called a life. Thomas didn't deserve to be in the middle of this again. His hands might be stained as red as hers, but he was still the best man she knew. He deserved so much better.

"Harleen." His voice was almost a whisper. He stepped into the room, the door closing behind him.

Her back turned to him, she could hear his empathy for her. Harley closed her eyes as he closed the gap between them, his hands gently removing the heavy coat from her shoulders. As it dropped to the floor, his tension was palpable, noticing the fluids that seeped through her shirt from her wounds, the streaks of dried blood in her hair. She felt his fingers at her waist, tugging her shirt upwards and she raised her arms, allowing him to pull the soaked fabric off her. Her eyes sealed, she imagined what the expression on his face might have looked like.

Thomas' breath hitched as he read the word carved into her back. "God, Harleen."

Harley felt the whoosh of air around her as he circled to her front, a soft touch on her cheek. She opened her eyes to see the dark blue of his, gazing at her with pity. And then the shame came. Not the shame of being a victim. It was the shame of a woman who was weak. Weak enough to be pitied by another. In her entire life, no one had ever once looked at her like that. She had been the strong one, the rock, always able to handle anything that came her way. Her body had survived an incredible amount of damage. Her hands had stolen the last breaths of the innocent. Her eyes had seen horrors that would drive most insane. She was Harley Quinn, the queen of chaos, the consort to death himself. And as his pity encompassed her, the truth became clear. She was worthless.

Hot tears flooded her eyes, creeping down her face as Thomas stared at her. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "It'll be alright, Harleen."

He always used that name. Clinging to a memory of a women who was gone, so different from the one that he held in his arms. Her tears fell, dripping from the edge of her chin to the shoulder of his coat. She didn't deserve a man like Thomas in her life. She didn't deserve a damn thing. And her initial tears turned into body wracking sobs, her knees collapsing from under her from the weight of her erratic emotions. Thomas clutched her in his embrace, following her descent to the floor. He murmured soothing words against her head, his fingers brushing up and down her arm in a calming gesture. She folded into his warmth, a desire to envelop herself in his consoling energy, wanting nothing more than to stop hurting. To find some peace for herself.

Her entire life was a series of embracing whatever came her way. Always defined by the trappings around her. Harley never did anything without it fully encompassing her every waking moment. Gymnastics was her life for much of her childhood and adolescent years and time after time, she bounced back from injury and frustration to make herself the best. She dedicated her soul to the sport, only to have her dreams ripped away from her. She drifted, lost as to her purpose until she met Guy. Her world became him, giving in to his every whim and desire as he slowly changed the core of her being. Even when his experiments sent her off the deep end, she always came back to him. And when he died, she followed his passion of the human mind. Her entire career in psychiatry was another way to keep him close, pushing everyone away. And despite her fears of awakening her inner demons, she realized that the real reason she kept everyone at arm's length was because she was still clutching tight to the memory of a dead man.

And then there was Mr. J. She let him absorb her from the first moment they met. No, even before then. The moment she saw his intense eyes staring at her through the video of a previous psychiatrist's session. Offering herself up to him as a sacrifice, she initiated their game, luring him in because no matter what she told herself at the time, she was obsessed from the beginning. Their dance consumed her life until all could think about was his eyes. Even now, in Thomas' arms, she saw those dark eyes peering at her and felt the rumblings of his chaos swirling inside her belly. The gymnast, the experiment gone wrong, the psychiatrist, the lover of a madman. But who was she? Who was Harleen Frances Quinzel?

When her sobs subsided, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, she glanced down at his shirt, wiping away the wet streaks on her cheeks. "I got blood on you." Her voice sounded pitiful to her own ears.

Thomas softly laughed. "It's fine. I have plenty more." His hand squeezed her arm, voice sincere. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head. "I don't know who I am anymore." She buried her face into his shoulder, wanting to let her mind float away, to not think anymore.

"I do," he said, his chin rested on the top of her head. "I've gotten to know you quite well in the past week and the one things I've noticed is that you're a contrarian. One side of you is always at war with the other, an exercise in opposites. You're mentally strong enough to handle almost anything thrown your way but so weak when it comes to understanding your own emotions. You're tough enough to endure a mass amount of physical damage but your heart is fragile. You're an intelligent woman and yet so stupid sometimes. You're so beautiful and yet you love to show the world the ugliest parts inside you."

She sighed against his shoulder. "With compliments like those..."

"And you're maddeningly closed off while simultaneously being open. You talk as if the world is this terrible place and everyone is a sinner, but then I see you smile at something as silly as a smiley face cupcake and I know you see the beauty and goodness in the world."

"When did you see that?"

"You watched a lot of Food Network," he explained. "But I think the shining quality about you is that when you set your mind on something, you are so determined to see it through to the end, despite any obstacles. In medical school, when that old lady was dying and her family was delayed by a blizzard, you sat there for twelve hours to keep her company because you promised her she wouldn't be alone when she died. You'd just come off a fourteen hour rotation when you made that promise. You fought through all your fatigue and gave a dying woman her last wish."

She smiled. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I didn't. And when those men came into my home, you defended it like it was your own, not giving a damn about your own self-preservation. And I know you would have tried to save Geoffrey if you could." His voice cracked a little. "And then, you saved my life by putting down your gun. You could have just let me die and saved yourself. In fact, you've told me point blank that you would feel no remorse if you killed me yourself, but yet, you made a sacrifice to keep me alive. Because of all that determination inside of you."

He hugged her closer. "You are an amazing woman, Harleen. Both hot and cold, terrifying and wonderful. I never know what you're going to do next. You told me that I never knew the real you but I think, even though you've changed over the years, the woman I met in medical school isn't that different from the woman here in this room." Thomas moved his head to look down at her, their eyes meeting. "You're flawed, but those imperfections make you the most interesting woman I've ever met."

As close as they were, she could feel his breath breeze across her face, minty with just a hint of alcohol. Their lips were only inches apart, eyes connected to something deeper within them both. A moment that was electric enough to sizzle the air. Harley's lips parted, and the only words she could find were, "If you're about to kiss me, you should know that I have a possessive ex-boyfriend who enjoys placing bombs in random people."

The comment broke the strange tension between them and Thomas laughed, a genuine sound that made her feel happy inside, and he pulled her back into their original hug, kissing the top of her head. "I have no intentions on becoming your rebound guy. I don't think I'd survive it."

"I'm not sure I will either," she muttered against his shirt, thoughts of Mr. J's rage coming into her head. She pushed away from her friend, a smile coming to her face. "Thank you, Thomas." She wasn't sure what else to say, so she got back to her feet.

"Let's fix you up," he said, standing as well. He guided her over to a chair and grabbed the medical bag that he left at the front door. They didn't speak much as he tended her wounds, only the occasional comment about the severity of her injuries. Nothing would need stitches, but he was concerned that she could have trauma from the blows to her head. He bandaged the worst of her damage and handed her another antibiotic pill, instructing her to buy some iron supplements to increase her blood production.

When he was finished, he packed away his supplies and handed her a clean shirt from her bag. Still sitting, she took it but only laid it on her lap. "I should clean up, first." Although the rubbing alcohol he used had wiped away most of the blood on her torso and back, she still had ribbons running down her legs and in her hair.

"I'll see myself out, then." Thomas nodded to her.

"Could you..." Harley stopped herself. No, she needed to find the right words, desperately searching her mind for what she wanted to express. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Thomas took her hand, kneeling before her. "Would you like me to stay?" The blue in his irises shined clearly in the dim lamplight of the room. Weakly, she nodded and he smiled, gently. "Alright."

Harley headed into the bathroom, stripping off her remaining clothes and scrubbing her lower half harshly. Gradually, the sink water turned a brownish color and when she was finished, she watched it drain, feeling relief that her past was beginning to fade. She used the detachable shower head to wash her hair, mindful of the fresh bandages, keeping her head down over the tub. Securing a towel around her head and body, she went back into the main room to take her forgotten clean clothing.

Thomas was sitting on the bed, flipping through channels on the TV. He had taken off his bloodied shirt and undershirt, his upper half bare before her eyes, and she couldn't help but admire his toned physique. She had felt his hard muscles through his clothing before, but in full view, she had to admit that he looked delicious. "Damn, Thomas." And she whistled at him in admiration. "A girl could cut herself on those lines." He rolled her eyes at her with a smile and she went back into the bathroom to change.

Leaving the wet towels on the floor, she looked at herself in the mirror. Whether it was Thomas' influence or just the knowledge that she was free of Mr. J, her reflection was lighter, as if the darkness of her soul had been banished. She could still feel the urges inside of her, but in this moment, she didn't want to act on them. She didn't want to destroy the bathroom or take Thomas for the ride of his life. Her mind lay elsewhere, contented with where she was. She no longer felt the need for deep contemplation. It was a relief. She smiled at herself, and donned her nightwear, just wanting to fall asleep before the worries of her life decided to resurface.

As grown adults, it was silly not to share the gigantic bed, so after Thomas had taken off his pants, giving her a nice view of his muscled legs and black boxers, they both settled in, turning off the TV and the lights. Silence pervaded the room except for the occasional rustle of the bedding as one of the shifted. Harley felt comfortable, safe even. Thomas would never be the man who protected her body from harm, but he was the kind of man who would protect her soul. She pushed the thought away, remembering how she always clung to whatever came along and made herself a promise to not make Thomas into something he wasn't. A friend, yes. A lover, time would tell. But he wouldn't become her next Guy Kopski or Mr. J. Her first priority had to be to herself, to discovering who she wanted to be.

"Harleen," Thomas spoke softly, breaking the silence and rolling over to face her. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About taking Bruce down?"

Staring up at the shadowy ceiling, she nodded. "I want to help you as much as I can. Breaking free of your fears is the hardest thing to do." She twisted her head to look at him. "You're here for me in my hardest time. I want to be there for you."

"You shouldn't have to feel like you owe it to me," he said.

"I don't. Friends don't do things for each other just because they feel obligated. They do it out of love for one another. Despite everything that's happened, every sucky, shitty thing that has rocked your world in the past week, you still came here to help me."

"I don't blame you for any of that."

"You should," she said, bitterly. "And yet, you don't. Which just proves that we have something real here. I don't know. Maybe it's the thrill of the adventure or the wild emotions that are surging inside of each of us, but somehow, all this hardship has rekindled that kinship we had in med school."

Thomas propped himself up on an elbow. "More so, I'd say. No one has ever tried to understand me. I'm sure you had some twisted motivation as to why you started prying into my life, but it's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders that someone else knows my secrets. I feel more alive than I have in years."

"You're living, now, not just existing anymore," she said, referring to their first conversation after she was shot. "You're experiencing life through my eyes. Even when I'm in my darkest emotional hole, I feel alive. After Mr. J did this to me, I sat there staring in a mirror reminding myself that I was alive."

"It feels good to be alive."

Harley couldn't help but laugh. "You sound so hokey. Like some pop song."

"I'm not much of a singer, but I could probably bust out some dance moves," he said.

"You have dance moves?" She quirked an eyebrow at him in disbelief.

"You wound me." His hand touched his chest. "I've spent years training in martial arts so it might be less dancing and more kicking, but it would entertain."

"This, I have to see." She paused. "Wait, you trained in martial arts? I didn't know that."

"There's a lot about me you don't know. How do you think I keep this amazing body?" he teased.

And Harley became silent, thinking on her previous assumptions that he was, for the most part, helpless. Sure, he had a killer inside of him, a darkness, as many men often did. But the will to take a life wasn't the same as the ability to take down an opponent. He seemed so gentle and his previous kills were methodical and planned, not requiring anything else. Assuming definitely made an ass out of her. She had never thought to ask if he had any skills beyond his medical training. She didn't even watch the altercation between Thomas and Crane's man, the one who killed Geoffrey. Her eyes had been focused on Crane. Had she bothered to pay the slightest attention, she may have seen something. Now, she found herself wondering what other little tantalizing tidbits of Thomas were hidden from her.

After several minutes, he broke the quiet. "Do you ever have any regrets?"

She rolled over to face him, considering the question. "I try never to regret anything. It leads to doubt that can cripple you. Everything we do shapes our lives, for good or bad. And we have to choose whether to live in constant doubt, or move on with our lives." She sighed. "And despite all that whiny crap from earlier, I don't regret anything I've done. I know there are better choices I could have made, but we all have to live with the things we do or failed to do and it's best not to dwell in the past."

"I can't decide if you're incredibly wise, or just full of crap," Thomas said, laughing.

Harley laughed with him. "Hey, you asked the question."

"That I did." He moved a little closer to her, his hand closing over her own. "It's good you called me tonight. No matter what happens, I want you to know that I'll always be there for you."

Harley smiled at the rather cheesy sentiment. "Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?"

A soft chuckle. "Oh, most cherished Harleen, thy beauty doth brighten mine heart." His phony British accent made them both laugh again. Then he grew earnest again. "But seriously, if you're in trouble, call me. I'll do what I can to help."

Touched by his sentiment, she squeezed his hand. "Thanks and the same goes for me."

They joked around for awhile longer before finally, sheer fatigue claimed Thomas and he fell quiet. Before long, his breathing grew deep and he no longer moved. Harley watched him for awhile before rolling her back towards him and shutting her eyes. Listening to his soft, rhythmic snores, Harley found herself lulled into a deep sleep, where dreams of clowns and blood haunted her.

* * *

><p>The bruises faded, the cuts began to scar over, and two weeks later, sitting in a motel room, Harley was back to her old self. She wiped blood off her leather pants, not quite remembering exactly who it belonged to. The only thing that mattered was that her demons were satiated. The inner voice of Mr. J had dissipated into a minor whisper that she found easy to ignore, especially when she was in the throes of her passion. She floated freely through the streets of Gotham, acting upon any impulses that consumed her. Sometimes destruction was the order of the night, sometimes lust, and other times she was content to lie in her uncomfortable motel bed and stare at the ceiling. Caution guided her actions most evenings, never picking the convenient target for her emotional outbursts, instead waiting to choose someone who wouldn't be missed or who suited her wicked mind. She recognized that her current patterns were much different than those under Guy and wondered why. It wasn't the whispers in her head and it most certainly wasn't Thomas, whom she kept at arm's length to avoid any incidents.<p>

Her friend had once speculated that she could control herself without the influence of Mr. J. He was right, but at the same time, her bloodlust had risen to near appalling levels. She could feel it licking her insides, waiting patiently for its release. Her actions had become more violent than before, and while the blur of the berserk frenzy was an ever constant threat, rarely did she lose herself to it. Instead, she made her moments last, drawing out the breaths of her victims until they were ragged and ready. In her moments of lust, she would fall into sheer rapture, claiming desire as she willed. It was different but Harley liked it.

Between her various affairs, she worked on plans to bring down Wayne. Initially, she went for subtle, arranging a deal with Livingston to have funds siphoned from Wayne Foundation charities and transferred to his personal account. The hacker was enthusiastic about the challenge, but a couple of days later she called to say she could no longer help. Mr. J was severing Harley's ties to his contacts. And in a way, the whole situation made Harley laugh. Even in a breakup between criminals, there was the awkward division of friends. His interference turned out to be for the best, for she couldn't stand amongst her peers without proving herself and she could never do that with his immense shadow looming over her.

Mr. J, for his part, had been unusually active since her departure, as if trying to work her out of his system. But his crimes seemed less malicious than usual and more like pranks on the city. There were the small acts, such as the Gotham Stock Exchange ticker board changing to show the "current prices" of notable celebrities within the city. Harley's name was in red, the price extremely low, showing just how childish he was being about the whole affair. The media had a field day with that tidbit, speculating about her absence from his side. But even the bigger crimes were out of sync with his usual style, going more for an attention-grabbing dramatic flair than testing the resolve of the citizens of Gotham. The incident at the zoo was proof of that.

It was a change. And when it came to Mr. J, change was never a good sign.

She found it best to ignore his antics and continue to focus on the task at hand. And one evening, while studying her target, a stroke of genius came over her. Harley had to stop thinking so far outside the box and return to her comfort zone. She should play to her strengths if she wanted to topple the giant. With that in mind, she began to construct a sinister plan that would shatter the world of Bruce Wayne. She had to admit, it was a risk and had a small chance of succeeding, but if she was dealt the right hand, Thomas would have his revenge and she would prove herself worthy of her reputation. With or without Mr. J, Harley Quinn would be known as a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: There is something so honest and bare about the relationship between Harley and Thomas. I really wanted to convey that in this chapter between the comfort he offers and the light hearted jokes between them, and still keep the tension that something may still happen between them. I do hope I was able to capture this well for you. **

**Thank you all for your continued support, whether you be a reviewer or a lurker. I hope everyone is enjoying this story. Oh, and the zoo incident...well that's best left to your imagination. :) Cheers!  
><strong>


	15. Memory Lane

Chapter Fifteen: Memory Lane

"Are you ready?" Harley asked of her bandaged companion.

Initially, when he presented his costume concept to her, she laughed until her sides hurt. But seeing Thomas' new look in person, she had to admit that it was perfect. At over six feet in height and a decent build, he was intimidating in his stature. But adding in his combat suit, a flexible but sturdy full body covering that had several loops and holsters for weapons, he became threatening. A brown duster gave the look a flair of style. In the end, though, the stripped bandages, that wrapped around his entire head like a mummy, made it clear that he was not someone to fuck with.

His blue eyes gleamed between the folds in the wrappings, glancing over to her from his position in the driver's seat of the van. "Yes."

He seemed strangely comfortable with the bindings around his head, breathing easily through the slits made at his nose and mouth. It looked constrictive and Harley pondered how hot it had to be for him under all that material. But it was vital to keep his identity a secret and anyone who tried to peel away the layers of bandages would need some time, enough to allow Thomas the chance to defend himself against curious fingers. A clever solution on his part with the limited time frame between her announcement of the plan and the enactment. Although she did wonder how he was able to procure the body suit on such short notice. It molded to his body in a way that made her believe it was a custom made piece. But considering he was a billionaire, Thomas probably just paid the tailor extra for the rush job.

Harley had pulled out her old costume and after a great deal of internal debate, she opted to wear it. It fit like it had never left her frame, tight in all the right places and concealing every inch of her skin, her HQ locket dangling from the leather strip that covered her neck scar. The blood splatters of yore were barely visible against the red and black fabric of her ringmaster's jacket. Much as the painted mask of Mr. J, her ensemble inspired fear in people, though she understood it was mostly because of the clown that escorted her. But even alone, her makeup, outfit, and crazed eyes distinguished her from the pack. Very few people in Gotham City would attempt a one-on-one with the insane Harley Quinn.

"Now, I have to ask," she said to her friend, leaning back in the passenger's seat. "Are there going to be any problems tonight? I know you're all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to this scene, but I need to be able to rely on you, Thomas."

"Hush," he said.

"The fuck I will," she said, indignant that he wanted her to shut up. "I'm not fucking around here. I need to know that you will do what's necessary."

The bandages around his lips raised into a smile. "Call me Hush," he said. "And yes, I have your back." As he spoke, his voice lowered to a deep bass, effectively disguising him from vocal recognition.

She quirked an eyebrow at his chosen moniker and shook her head. " You know what? I don't want to know." Agitation and excitement filled her as she flipped the safety off her gun and held it on her lap, the barrel pointed away from Thomas. They had almost reached their destination. "Alright, you know your part. Don't fuck up. I really don't want to wind up in prison, or worse, Arkham."

The van came to a stop in front of an expensive, elite restaurant named Peach. Reservation only with food that could barely fill a stomach but looked very pretty on a plate The valets that waited out front were attempting to wave them away, as it was obvious the van didn't belong in such a proper environment. As one of them approached her side to demand the van vacate the spot, Harley opened her door hard, slamming it into the man's body and sending him tumbling to the ground. Then, with one last look to Thomas, she stepped out of the van in full view of everyone on the crowded street, brandishing her weapon and grinning wildly. The five minute window before the police arrived had started. Stepping over the injured valet, she strode though the entrance, leaving Thomas to deal with the riff raff outside.

The interior was modern, bordering on avant garde with strange paintings and art pieces that looked like some of the art therapy work she had seen by the inmates at Arkham. At the end of the entrance hall was a podium with the required snooty host in a tuxedo, who didn't even look up as she approached. "Name please," his whiny tenor made him sound like he was doing her a favor by letting her dine there.

People like him were the real problem with Gotham. Harley pointed her gun at him, cocking it. "Harley Quinn." The moment slowed as the dawning realization of how fucked he was crossed his features. She savored his every expression as he sputtered, looking up to her. The reason she loved her job. "Party of one." And she bared her teeth at him in a feral way, confident that he had just pissed himself in terror.

"Lead the way, Jeeves," she said, waving her gun towards the curtain that separated the lobby from the restaurant proper.

With shaky legs, he stepped out from the minor protection the podium provided and took up a menu, as if she was actually planning on dining there. "Th-this way, m-madame," he stuttered, sounding like he was about to throw up. Harley had to admire his professionalism and dedication to his hosting duties. The man deserved a raise.

Keeping her gun pointed at his back, she followed him through the curtain to the tiny but well spaced room. There were, perhaps, only twenty tables in the entire restaurant, spread apart in a lovely arrangement that would give any diner the feel of some privacy. The tables were wood, stained black, with chairs that looked more like art pieces than furniture. More modern art clung to the dark walls. Even the lighting fixtures were lovely, mini-chandeliers with sprawling pieces of metal exploding from the center. The ambiance was strange but yet, Harley couldn't help but like it.

Her eyes immediately spotted the target, sitting in the furthest corner with a beautiful woman practically hanging off his arm. Thomas' intel had been accurate. A slow silence began to permeate the room as the nearest diners noticed her presence. She didn't need any fancy gestures or loud noises to make her presence known. Shoving the host away from her, she simply smiled at each table in turn, watching the fear and silent panic pervade everyone. And like a wave, every head turned towards her until his table, the last in the line, noted the quiet and looked up to see what was going on. Just as she had done to every other table, she smiled at Bruce Wayne and his date.

"I'm going to make this simple, everyone," she said, only raising her voice slightly to make sure everyone could hear. "I have no intentions of harming anyone. I just need to have a little chat with my good friend Bruce there."

With her free hand, she pointed at him, before turning her hand up and crooking her finger to indicate he should come to her. "No panic room to hide in this time, Wayne," she said.

Her eyes swept the small crowd to make sure no one was going to try anything and when she was confident in their resignation, she put all her concentration on Bruce. Gone was the casual, carefree look in his eyes. He became grim as he placed his napkin on the table. Bruce looked around the room, catching the furtive glances shot in his direction by his fellows, and she could see in his eyes that his bigger concern was for the safety of everyone in the restaurant rather than for himself. The selfish playboy had a noble streak, which was everything Harley had hoped for. His date had his arm locked in a death grip and was shaking her head with tears in her eyes, like some silly ditz, as if he was the love of her life going off to his death. The girl only loved his money and everyone in the room knew it. As he tried to stand, the girl kept pulling him back with a "No, you don't have to. She'll kill you."

A gasp ran through the crowd and Harley didn't need to turn to know that Hush was at her back with his imposing presence. Her internal clock told her this was taking far too long and just as she was about to grab a patron for some leverage, Hush strode past her and moved to Bruce's table, pulling a gun from one of his holsters. He aimed it at the ditz and watched, unmoved, as her tears began to fall soundly. Harley could feel his contempt of the girl rolling off him, delicious and untempered. And her uncertainty as to whether he would shoot the ditz didn't diminish her pride as she watched her friend turn from prey to predator.

"Remove your hands from him, you gold-digging whore." Hush's deep voice rumbled through the room, filled with distaste for the girl. And Harley was once again reminded of the most basic and repugnant aspects of her friend. Thomas didn't like most women he came across, seeing the lot of them as a lesser species. He could turn on the charm, be the good man, but deep down, whatever resentment he felt towards his mother carried on to nearly every woman he ever met. But he never once looked at Harley in that way, proving that he had some taste. Harley kept her eyes on Bruce, looking for any sign of recognition of his oldest friend, but there was none. Hush had passed the test.

The ditz dropped her hands from Bruce to start crying into them. Harley rolled her eyes and glanced at the tables as Hush grabbed Bruce by the back of the neck. The patrons were in fear but she could also see the relief in their faces. Typical, worthless people, worried about themselves first and foremost. As much as she desired to coat herself in their blood, the endeavor would be pointless and not nearly satisfying enough. Fish in a barrel. Instead, she leaned over one woman, who gasped at Harley's sudden intrusion, and grabbed the plate of desserts resting in the center of the table. "You don't mind, do you?" The woman shook her head, mutely.

Tucking her gun under her arm, she smiled and downed one of the tiny desserts in one bite, tasting the flavors of white chocolate and peaches on her tongue. "Mmm," she said. "I always wondered what the fuss was about and damn, this is good. Want some?"

She held the plate out to Hush who shook his head. She could see the ghost of an amused smile on his face, though. Shrugging, she dropped the plate to the floor and giggled madly at the startled jumps of the patrons. Hush, with Bruce in tow, pushed past her and she turned on her heel to follow with a "My compliments to the chef!"

The valets were gone from their curbside stand and there were only a couple of random pedestrian witnesses to Hush shoving Bruce into the back of the unmarked van. Harley climbed in behind the playboy as her companion went around to sit in the driver's seat. The back had been cleared out of all seating so it was just Bruce and Harley on the dirty floor as the van began to move. "You know, I told him not to leave the engine on. Lucky the van didn't get stolen, eh? Nothing but criminals in this town."

She laughed at her own joke, while Bruce gave her that look that most people did, when they weren't crapping themselves. The look that said he believed she was completely out of her mind. Unlike Mr. J, that look never bothered her. All the pretty white sheep didn't want a black sheep like her wandering into their pen. But reality was, the rest of the world was mad, living their day-by-day boring lives and never having any real fun. Most people, when asked about their happiest moment in their life, would point to something primal, like giving birth, or bungee-jumping. Events that made them feel alive. And yet, they didn't strive to make those events an everyday occurrence, shuffling along like zombies and wishing for things that could only come true if they acted. No, she wasn't the crazy one. The rest of them were.

"What do you want?" Bruce asked, his hands gripping one of the straps on the side to keep from falling over as they rode along.

Harley expected him to sound sheepish, or even frightened, but his voice held the command of someone who had power and knew it. Her initial assessment of him from the Wayne Manor house-warming was proving to be accurate. False front to the public but behind the facade, there was something more to him than just money and women. "Exactly what I said. To talk." She pulled a needle out of her pocket. "But we can't do it here. So, I'll see you when you wake up."

He tried to stop her, his hands coming up in defense, but he wasn't fast enough for her quick reflexes as she jabbed him in the thigh with the needle and pressed down on the plunger. It was nice to see someone else being knocked out for once. Harley was getting rather sick of being the unconscious one. She waited a few moments after his eyes closed, and then opened them up to verify that the sedative had indeed taken hold. Propofol: Never kidnap a billionaire without it. She checked his pulse quickly, to make sure there was no adverse effect, and satisfied, she rifled through his pockets until she found his cell phone. Then she climbed into the passenger seat and rolled down the window, chucking the phone to the pavement.

"Fucking GPS," she muttered before looking over to Thomas. "Hey, you did a good job in there."

"You really think you can pull this off?" He voice betrayed his nerves.

"If anyone can do it, I can." Harley smiled at him, pulling her bag out from under the seat. Still, she didn't give him positive confirmation. She wasn't entirely sure that her plan would work. It would expose so much of her, and Bruce's reaction might not go the way she hoped. She pulled out the towel from the bag, flipping down the mirror in the visor to look at her greasepaint smeared face. "This makeup is so messy."

"Then why do you wear it?"

"Because, my dear, life is a stage and the costumes we wear determine our role."

As she wiped away the paint from her face, she became serious, knowing her role was about to change drastically. It was time to put on a show.

* * *

><p>There was a certain irony in utilizing the same office building that Crane used in order to perform her own little experiment. But after doing some scouting, she discovered the space had been cleared of all police interference and tape and decided, why not? In the same office that held her deepest secrets, Harley sat in front of an unconscious Bruce Wayne. Poetic, really. His hands and feet were strapped, with zip ties, to her old chair, his head slumped forward in sleep. She sat where Thomas once did, her legs crossed, ringmaster's jacket wrapped around the back of the chair, makeup removed and hair down. It made her appear more human. And in the corner where Thomas ended a man's life, stood his alter ego. The carpet still bore the mark of the kill, but Hush's boots stood over the area in defiance of any guilt. Her pride in him swelled even more.<p>

"Sure you don't want a chair?" she asked him.

"No," he said, in that low tone, keeping in character.

"No, you're not sure or no, you don't want a chair?" Harley winked at him, enjoying the chance to tease him before things got serious.

"No," was all he said again. Harley gave him a dismissive wave with a roll of her eyes and turned her focus to the other handsome billionaire in the room. Bruce's brown hair was almost perfectly coiffed, except for one lone strand of hair that fell over his forehead from being manhandled. His suit was a little rumpled from her search of his pockets. Nothing that struck her as out of the ordinary so she left the contents alone. But despite his tousled appearance, he still looked damn fine and she could understand why the ladies liked him. Even unconscious, he was like a sculpture that represented the American ideal. Handsome, rich, powerful. Ripe for the picking.

And yet the parallels between him and Thomas were undeniable. While she completely understood how it felt to be in someone's shadow, she wondered why Thomas couldn't just be happy with second place. Harley was perfectly content with her own standing. Whether poised at Mr. J's side or working on her own, she could never compete with the clown. He was smarter, more devious and stronger than she could ever hope to be. And while Harley was fine with her place in the world, not everyone could accept theirs. The drive to succeed was strong in so many, and jealousy was one of the ugliest and most destructive of emotions.

After a few minutes of quiet, Bruce began to stir, his muscles tightening under his shirt. She leaned back against her chair, throwing one leg up over the armrest. "Give it a couple of minutes, hun. The drugs take time to wear off."

Just as she had done a few weeks ago, he tested his bonds, looked around the room groggily, his eyes warily observing Hush for a moment before settling on her. "Who's your friend?" His voice was raspy, forcing him to cough a couple times.

Pulling a bottle of water out of her bag, she walked over to him, tipping it towards his lips. "You're going to have some dry mouth as a result of the sedative. Drink up." Some of the water dribbled down his chin but he drank a few swallows without reservation. If she had wanted him dead, he'd be dead and they both knew it. "Don't mind my friend. Strong and silent type, I tell ya. Hush is a little intimidating but he's only here to keep you in check." She gave Thomas a poignant look, making sure he understood the unspoken direction to keep quiet. She didn't want him to interfere in the least. A nod in return.

Pulling the water away, she sat back down on her chair. "Sorry about the whole tying-you-up thing. Can't have you running off right now."

"If it's money you want-" he began.

Harley held up a hand. "No, no. This isn't about money. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to talk with you."

Bruce was still tense, understandable under the circumstances, but his demeanor told her that he was worried about something. Death? No. Torture, maybe, but then he wouldn't have taken the water. Maybe he had some illegal dealings on the side and believed she was hired to chat with him about it. Or had some skeletons in the closet that haunted him. She pondered several other options but couldn't nail one right off the bat. Time would give her more indication of his inner concerns.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Me." And she smiled brightly, extending her arms out above her in a voila gesture.

"No offense," he said, his syllables lazy and carefree as he spoke. "But I don't really know you. Except for what the news has said." He was lying. She spotted his tell right away, a slight crinkling of his nose. That meant he had already taken an interest in her, at least enough to look her up in other forms of media. Curious, but not curious enough to follow that line, yet.

"I don't expect you to know me, Bruce," she said. "We only met for like two seconds at your house-warming."

"I remember. You were there with Tommy."

She shook her head. "Actually, Thomas and I ran into each other at the party and were getting reacquainted when you made your grand entrance. But I'm glad you remembered because that party is why we're here tonight. It's all about legacy."

Bruce looked confused. "What?"

Harley leaned forward in her seat to grab his attention further. "I watched you as you gave that speech about the manor and the legacy of your family. You looked like you were just phoning it in, paying lip service to the masses. But I'm not like the rest of the sheep. I'm a psychiatrist. I see through all the lies that people tell others, as well as the lies they tell themselves. There was something real about what you said." She smiled, warmly. "The Wayne family has been the backbone of the city for a long time, providing jobs, transportation, security, and so on. Even though you put on this guise of being some rich kid who blows his inheritance, there is something deeper to you that not everyone else sees."

His tension increased tenfold and he couldn't stop the look of surprise that came over his face. "And what is that?" He asked, as if he didn't want to hear the answer.

"You care about the legacy of your family."

Bruce's relief was evident, as his muscles relaxed a bit and it was Harley's turn to be confused. His reaction was odd, the nervous energy flooding the room. Mentioning that he held something deeper inside him set his tension higher, which meant there was something more to the billionaire. Skeletons, as she suspected a couple minutes ago, and not ones that he would want to see made public. So concerned that she might be aware of his secrets. Mr. J would probably have had the answer by now, his ability to make connections was something unique, but she needed more time. So she locked away the information for a later date when she could analyze it more.

"What does my family's legacy have to do with you, then?" he asked.

"Because I'm your sister," and she laughed as his eyes widened, nearly doubling over at her own joke. "Oh, the look on your face is priceless." Harley caught her breath as her laughter died down. "But no, seriously, your family's legacy doesn't have anything to do with me at all. It has everything to do with you. Like I said, you have this whole fake thing going on, but deep down, you give a shit what happens to this city and what your company does. I've done a lot of research on you, Bruce, and you have a hand in almost every positive thing that happens under the Wayne name. It's admirable, and more than that, it shows that you're willing to overlook the grime and corruption of Gotham City when so many others would give up. This city is filthy and crime-ridden, but you try to make a difference as best you can and give people hope, even if they don't know it. And that's why I picked you."

"You want me to give you hope?" Again, the confusion.

"No," she said, her smile dropping into a more earnest expression. "I just want you to listen to me with an open mind. I honestly think you're the only one who can do that, without trying to force me into some agenda. I need someone to talk to."

Bruce's face became softer, as if he started to understand his purpose. "Ms. Quinzel, there are better people out there who can do that. I'm not a therapist."

"I'm not looking for one. Hell, I used to be one and I know what we do. Pigeonhole me into some diagnosis that can be medicated, but that's not what I need." She turned her big baby blues on him, widening them to make her look younger, sadder, desperate. Her voice became quieter, as if scared of rejection. "Please, Bruce, can you just listen?"

A pause as he collected his thoughts. She was silent, letting him process her request. Then, making his mind up, he nodded. "I can do that."

Harley almost expected him to make her promise to turn herself in, or to not hurt anyone else, but perhaps her desperation got through to him. A good sign. He was thinking with his heart rather than his head. Playing right into her hands, like putty. Inwardly, she was delighted that her analysis of the man had proven accurate. And giving herself over to her own emotions would sell everything completely. Truth was, Hush was standing in the room, not only to observe his enemy, but also to keep her under control if she lost it. She was about to let her emotions take absolute domination of her mind, body, and soul, to make herself vulnerable. But it could go very wrong if the darker impulses decided they wanted to play instead.

"Thank you," Harley said, mustering up as much sincerity as she could. "This means more to me than you can possibly know." She took a sip out of the water bottle she had offered to Bruce earlier and closed her eyes, preparing to unlock her mind for the second time. It may not have been a chilly night at Gotham General, but she remembered the words flowing out of her as black eyes swam in the depths of her spirit. No candlelight. Only the hum of track lighting. But still, she transported her thoughts to an earlier time where there was nothing to soothe her but the harsh reality of her inevitable destruction at Mr. J's hands. The dance ending the only way it could, with a tale. A tale of Harleen Quinzel.

When Harley opened her eyes again, she began to speak, losing herself in memory and emotion. The story of her life was long, strange, deadly and at times oddly erotic, but she could see Bruce's eyes follow her every motion with interest. And why not? It wasn't every day that a mass murderer confessed her sins. The one thing she could say, in pride, about her life was that it most certainly wasn't dull. Nearby, she was aware of Thomas' presence watching, giving her strength, as he learned her story at last. As much as she wanted to look at him, to let him know that she was expressing herself for his sake as well, she couldn't. Not only would it break their illusion, but she feared the look in his eyes as he heard the details of her sordid history. Very few could stomach the things she had done.

The story wasn't the same one she told Mr. J, not exactly. Some things never needed to be said aloud again. But Harley was open about most things. Her early days as a gymnast, her life with Guy, his experiments upon her, her career as a psychiatrist, and finally her nights of chaos with Mr. J. All of those secrets slipped from her tongue as tears fell down her face. She tried to capture the horror and the ecstasy of her mind, the uncontrolled wild side that permeated her being. Digging deep to find the part of herself that hated everything she had done, she displayed that for Bruce, making him believe her a victim of the condition forced upon her. Outwardly blaming herself for all the evil she had done and yet instilling that single shred of doubt in Bruce that she couldn't help herself. Another innocent corrupted by the evil of others.

Nothing demonstrated her point more than when she removed her shirt, allowing Bruce to see the markings that shred her flesh, remnants of Guy, Mr. J, and her own dark impulses. His face couldn't contain the horror he felt as he scanned her battered and scarred body, the ugliness of her nature permanently branded into her skin. With more tears, she explained each visible imprint's origin. Marks of love, passion, and hatred. And the ones out of guilt, the hash marks on her upper left arm that marked her kills so she could always remember the lives she stole. Bruce never spoke, despite the emotional turmoil that radiated from him. And Thomas, she wished she could let him know that she was fine with what had happened to her but she had to play to a different audience. It killed Harley to feel him shifting uncomfortably in the corner. Whether from rage or the need to comfort his friend, she didn't know. Her focus had to be on Bruce.

Replacing her shirt, Harley continued her story by explaining Mr. J's form of training, the nights locked in his basement with no food, no water, everything at his command. The beatings, the sex, his strange way of controlling her. And while she did speak of Barbara Gordon's shooting, she intentionally left out her feelings about the action, believing the primal side of herself might be a little too much for the billionaire to handle. As her story grew closer to the present, she omitted all references to Thomas and their friendship, but did speak of Crane opening her mind to her fears of being trapped. All leading up to her final confrontation with Mr. J, where she left him bleeding on his own doorstep as she walked away from him for good.

"I haven't seen him since. I thought I loved him, but it was a lie. Love is supposed to prevent this kind of messed up stuff from happening, you know. But Guy, Mr. J, both of them were just cages around me." She met Bruce's eyes while wiping away her tears. "I haven't ever known the kind of love that people write songs about and I never will. Because who would want to love a freak like me? I'm a complete fucking disaster. But it's all fair in the end. After everything I've done, I don't deserve any happiness."

She shrugged and turned her face away, letting her exposed emotions cool down before she looked back up at the silent man before her. "Thank you for listening, Bruce. It can't have been easy to hear all that, to know that my hands are responsible for so much evil. But I needed someone to know my tale and it's been very cathartic."

Pulling her jacket off the back of her chair, she slipped it over her shoulder, sliding a knife out of the pocket.. She walked back over to his seated form. A couple quick slices and his bonds fell away. "You're free to go, now."

"That was quite a story," Bruce said, rubbing his wrists and looking up into her eyes. "I feel like I should say something but I just don't know what to say."

Looking down at his handsome face, Harley felt all the emotion deflate out of her and smiled bitterly as she passed into her internal void. "There's nothing left to say." And quick as a viper, she extracted the gun from her pocket and placed it against her temple. Her trip down memory lane was finished, and she felt nothing but calm as she pulled the trigger.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. It would have been out earlier but I had minor surgery earlier this week and was too drugged to consider editing this sucker. Although I imagine, this chapter would have been funnier if I had. :) And a note, if you haven't read my first story "Repression" some of the content in this chapter might have confused you, so go check it out.  
><strong>

**Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter. This one was difficult on so many levels, you have no idea, so any feedback is appreciated. Thanks! **


	16. Another Way

Chapter Sixteen: Another Way

"NO!" Bruce's voice rang out as Harley's finger began to squeeze the trigger.

As the gun clicked empty against her temple, Bruce tackled her to the ground, pushing her gunhand away from her body and pinning her arm against the floor. Surprise crossed her face as Harley stared at the malfunctioning weapon in her hand before pulling the trigger to test it a second time. A loud bang rang out as a bullet imbedded itself into the wall nearby. She struggled against Bruce to bring the gun up again to her head, but his fingers wrested the weapon from her hand, tossing it across the room towards Hush. Breathing heavily, she narrowed her eyes at him, still pinned under the weight of his chest.

"How dare you take the choice away from me." Hard edges lined her voice, cold and betrayed.

"I am not going to watch you kill yourself, Harley," Bruce said, anger in his eyes, but also compassion and worry. "That is never the answer."

"Then what is?" Her anger in return, accusing. "If I don't stop myself, I will kill more innocents and neither of us wants that. This is the only way."

His weight lifted off her, and Bruce shifted to sit back on his knees, giving her room to sit up. Eyes scanning the room, she noted Hush in the same spot, watching impartially as the scene played out. Bruce shook his head at her. "There are people who can help you, Harley. If you give them a chance, they can help you change."

Harley could feel the tears at the corners of her eyes. "I am not going to Arkham. Do you have any idea what happens behind those walls? Because I do." Her eyes grew wide. "Not only will I feel more trapped than I am now, but they'll just put me in a padded room and medicate me into catatonia because no amount of therapy can ever fix what's been done to me. The doctors there don't care what happens to the patients." Her eyes pleaded with him. "I'd be just another roster number, destined to wilt away, dying slowly. I won't let them do that to me. Not when I have a choice."

And she collapsed into herself, pulling her knees up to press her forehead against them. Something the late Peyton Riley always did. Her arms wrapped around her legs, and she felt the tears flow down her cheeks much as they did when she broke down in front of Thomas a few weeks back, and she felt her mind transported back to those moments in the hotel room. A warm hand touched her head, an attempt to comfort as she lost herself inside her emotions. Her sobs pierced the air, echoing off the blank walls and back to her ears. Worthless Harley.

"There are other options." Bruce spoke. Not Thomas, she had to remind herself. Bruce's voice was nearer than before, his hand was the one on her head. "I can talk to the police on your behalf, get you sent somewhere out of Gotham with good doctors who won't do that to you. People who genuinely want to help you. You don't have to give up."

Her head whipped up, staring into his concerned hazel eyes as he retracted his hand. "I won't be caged like that." More anger. "Might as well go back to Mr. J if I want that kind of treatment. People who pretend they know what's best for you but in reality, they all just seek to control you." Her eyes flashed at him as she released her hold on her legs. "I won't be a puppet to anyone else. I'd rather die."

A look of pity crossed Bruce's face and she sneered. "What, Wayne? You feel bad for the broken doll now that you know her story? Fuck you. I don't want your pity. You served your purpose. Now get the fuck out of here and go back to your life of money-grubbing bimbos and all-nighters."

Gracefully, she stood in one motion. Bruce got to his feet, as well, looking down at her. "I refuse to believe that you kidnapped me only so you could tell me your life story. You wanted me here for something more and while you may be right that I do feel bad for you, it's not because you're broken. It's because you want to throw your life away before seeing if there is another way. A way you can be fixed. And I can... no, I want to help you with that, if you let me." He held out his hand to her. "Let me help you, Harley."

For a moment, she stared at his outstretched palm, seeing hope in her future. A lifeline. The possibility of a life without all the boundaries imposed on her, sending her demons back where they belonged. Her shaking hand began to rise to take his, but at the last second, she pulled her hand away, turning from the compassionate gaze of the billionaire. "No."

"Harley-" Bruce began.

"Get out." Her voice was trembling as she spoke, not looking at him.

"Don't do this," he pleaded with her.

Her rage swirled inside her, bubbling over. Whirling around, the knife from her pocket back in her hand, she brandished it before Bruce. "Get out before we both regret it."

She could see the disappointment in his eyes. "Fine." He walked towards the door, his hand on the knob, before his head swiveled to look back at her. "But remember, there is always another way, Harley. When you're ready, come find me." Then he was gone.

Hush moved for the first time to poke his head out the door before nodding in confirmation that the billionaire was nowhere to be seen. In silence, they gathered all evidence of their misdeeds and went out the back entrance to the waiting van. As Hush tossed everything inside, Harley stared down the alley, trying to collect her thoughts, replaying the past couple hours in her mind. Letting it all wash over her and through her before expelling it out in one long whoosh of air. She needed to regain her sense of self, not to be lost in the role. And when Thomas was finished, she climbed back into the passengers seat and rested, listening to the peaceful hum of the engine.

Only once they cleared several city blocks did Thomas speak. "Damn, you're good." And he let out an impressed whistle that broke the tension.

Harley began to laugh. A laughter that was harsh, yet distinctly feminine, like bells clanging against a wall. A glance at Thomas' bandaged head made her laugh even harder, as the night's events escaped her through joyful merriment until her sides hurt. A smile crossed his face but he didn't join in, merely enjoyed her amusement in his introverted way. After several minutes and an increase of abdominal pain from her glee, she calmed down enough to look out the window at the skyline of Gotham, a wide grin splitting across her face.

"Did you see his face when I pulled the trigger?" Harley had removed the bullet from the chamber on the ride over, a planned maneuver to grab attention with the brutal act of attempted suicide. And it worked perfectly. "I thought he was going to shit himself."

"A brilliant idea. Sold the entire bit," Thomas agreed. "Your performance was spectacular. Very convincing. I was about to dive across the room to stop you even though I knew what you were doing. I'll admit, it was good enough to make me wonder about your mental state."

Directing her smile over to him, she said, "You still should. After all, I'm a raving psychotic. I'm just glad I was able to hold it together so you didn't have to get involved. It's hella dangerous for me to allow my emotions to take me over like that. I was drawing on a lot of memories and they stirred my pot something good."

"Will there be any residual problems?"

Harley shook her head. "I'll take care of my pent up aggression later. I'll be fine, but it's cute that you're worried."

"I've invested far too much into you to not be worried," Thomas said. "Is this the right place for the drop?"

The van pulled in an old junk yard, often used by the mafia as a dumping ground. They wouldn't notice another empty van amongst the rest of their leftovers. She pointed to a decent parking spot and Thomas stopped the vehicle. There was no need to scrub down the van, so they merely grabbed their gear and left the yard behind, walking towards where Thomas left two of his unregistered cars. He tossed her a set of keys and dumped his bag in the trunk of the car he'd be driving. And then, with great care, he unwrapped the bandages from his head.

"Oh, sweet god, you have no idea how good this feels." His eyes closed in rapture as the fresh, cool air ran across his bare facial skin.

Harley smiled. "Actually, I think you just got your first glimpse of what it feels like to be me."

His blue eyes cracked open, flicking over at her. "Explains a lot," he said. "So what's next?"

"I'll need you to send me his itinerary for the next week. Then I start with the build up phase. He seems much more amenable than I thought he'd be, so we may be able to press the final phase earlier than I thought."

Thomas nodded. "Bruce has always been full of surprises, especially when it comes to a pretty face in distress."

"Ever the flirt, Thomas," she teased, flipping her hair behind her in a girly way.

Laughing, he pulled her into a hug and kissed her forehead. "You know you love it."

With her arms wrapped around him, she squeezed gently. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Pulling back a little to gaze down at her face, his eyebrow raised. "Oh, really?" His voice dropped into something more primal, his sexual energy increasing. The hands, that were wrapped around her, massaged her back lightly through her jacket. His joking smirk was only a mask for his true intentions. She could feel the evidence of that pressing against her stomach.

The temptation was delicious to her, wanting to claim him, to feel his body writhing beneath hers, but Harley remembered the promise she made herself and forced away her own growing energy with great effort. "What happened to not wanting to be the rebound guy?"

"Knowing you, you've already had ten of them by now."

Gently touching his cheek with her gloved hand, she smiled. "True. But right now, you're high on the action of tonight. And so am I. From experience, there is nothing like great sex after a successful run." She couldn't believe she had the strength to say the next words. "And as much as I want to tear your clothes off right now and make you scream my name in the throes of passion, I think we both know that being so impulsive will only lead to disaster."

"For someone who claims to have no self-control, you show a remarkable amount of restraint."

"I have a good friend who keeps reminding me that I can do it," she said and then stretched up to press a light kiss on his lips. A friendly, quick peck to thank him before pulling away. "But if you need some relief, there are some hookers who use the motel I'm staying at. I could arrange something."

Again, the tension broke between them as he laughed. "I think I'll somehow make it."

With a wink, she walked over to her borrowed car and got in. It had been a great night. So much accomplished, so much yet to do. Harley had to remind herself not to get overconfident. That was the worst thing any criminal could do, because that was always when some screw got knocked loose. And without Mr. J's obsessive personality guiding her actions and making her paranoid about every move, she had a far better chance of success in her endeavors. Driving back to her motel, Harley felt elated and ready for whatever would come next.

* * *

><p>Mr. J watched as the cars drove off, the smell of exhaust and rubber penetrating his senses. Judging by the interaction, Harley had gone off to sate her lust. A trifle. Insignificant that hands, not his own, were upon her. Her bed might be warmed by another body but her soul would always belong to him, thinking dark thoughts in the night of greasepaint and gasoline. Wishing she could end the dance but unable to live without it. Her entire life was defined by it. And Harley could never escape her true destiny, a fiddle that was out of tune when not in his hands.<p>

Taking out his phone, he made a familiar phone call. "CCTV wipe on Jackson between Howard and Lexington for five hours." And hung up without another word. Livingston would handle it.

His sloppy girl had left so many loose ends behind since her departure. Bodies not properly dumped, lovers still breathing, neighbors aware of her presence at her pathetic motel room. It was against his interests to let her rot in the back of a police car, but she certainly deserved it. The victim of her own stupidity. Harley had many good qualities but she, so often, missed the details. And Mr. J was there to keep her unknowingly in check. Corpses incinerated, lovers removed, neighbors threatened. Always watching. Her silent guardian. Whoever she chose to quench her desire would be dead by morning. His hands wiping her scent off of used flesh.

Harley was clueless. Focused when needed but blinded on both sides. She never could see the obvious, staring her right in the face. Everything was so clear and the clock was ticking down, each second leading to her inevitable confrontation. The copy cat had been active with petty stunts but the identity was known. An overly complicated operation to be turned upside down. So lost in plans, it would never be seen. Heard. Felt. Mr. J saw the conclusion and couldn't help but laugh.

A joke that would shatter her world and remind her where she belonged.

* * *

><p>Harley stood across the street, no makeup, no costume, watching the entrance to his downtown penthouse. Her heavy coat covered her body, but she left the hood down, her blond hair flying around in the gusts that blew between buildings. His pretty date was exiting the car, excited to be bedded by the billionaire. A little bit of sociopath had to be lurking behind the exterior of Bruce Wayne to shamelessly use women and cast them aside as he did. A rarity that he was seen with the same woman twice. But they kept coming, hoping they would be the one. None of them ever could be. From her analysis of his actions, he had proven that he both needed a damsel and a warrior, someone who had strength and yet needed him. Harley Quinn was the perfect candidate.<p>

It had been just over a week since she kidnapped him but it wasn't their first encounter since then. She had snuck into a press conference, a couple days prior, to watch him speak on some facet of Wayne Enterprises. At one point, while following his script notes, his eyes scanned the crowd. When they landed on her, his voice nearly cracked, covering up his reaction with a cough. Harley did nothing in return, not wanting to draw any attention to herself. The point was made that she was still alive. Thanks to his nobility. And then she disappeared into the crowd before he could locate her again.

As the driver's door was opened for him, Bruce stood, looking around the block for a second, as she hoped he would. His wandering eyes passed her silhouette briefly, continuing to scan, before darting back to focus completely on her in surprise. Harley raised her hand in greeting. In turn, he put up his forefinger to silently ask her to wait a minute. It didn't take long for his date to be sent on her way, confused and pissed off at her dismissal. And then Bruce was walking across the cold pavement of the street towards his former abductor.

"Harley," he said, as he approached, keeping a decent distance from her. Smart of him.

"Bruce." She nodded back to him, her hands in her pocket.

"You look well."

"I feel better," she said, purposefully being as awkward as she could, drawing upon memories of her days in high school. "I, uh, wanted to thank you. For, you know, stopping me."

The concern in his eyes came back. "Are you alright?"

Again, she nodded. "I've been thinking about what you said. About there being another way. I don't want to live like this anymore."

"I know some people-" Always the same line from him. She waved a hand to stop him from continuing.

"No. I'll just wind up imprisoned and then I'm left with only one choice." She didn't need to say what that choice was. They both understood her meaning. "But while I might not be able to live my life the way it used to be, you know, when I was a doctor, I want to try to be better. Go off and live somewhere quietly where they don't know my face or name."

"As much as I know you don't want to hear it, Harley," he said, his breath steaming against the cold. "You can't just walk away from your past, not without confronting what's happened. You've hurt a lot of people because of your actions. And while I, now, understand that it wasn't necessarily in your control, tell me, don't they deserve as much peace as you?"

"By what? Dragging me before the courts so some shrinks can announce what everyone knows? That I'm insane, that the Joker somehow twisted my mind? How is that going to grant anyone peace? I've murdered, tortured, and done god knows what to hundreds of people in my time. Nothing is ever going to give the survivors or the families of my victims any peace." She wrung her hands in front of her. "When it comes down to it, I'm suffering far more than any of them ever have. And I want it to stop. I want to stop hurting." Tears filled her eyes, burning against her chilled lashes. "You told me to come find you, so I did, because I have no other person to turn to. But if all you're going to do is keep telling me to turn myself in, then I'll just say goodbye now."

Harley could see the war behind his eyes. The struggle between wanting to help the damsel and letting the police handle her. He wasn't worried about what she would to do him, but rather the harm she would cause out on the streets, whether to others, or herself. Bruce knew her story, understood that she was out of control and way beyond his skills, but at the same time, he could see the pain inside her and the plea for help. And maybe if he spent some time talking with her, he could eventually convince her to seek out real help. Behind her tears, she studied every nuance of his posture, the little ticks of his face, and knew what his decision would be.

"Why don't you come inside?" Bruce asked, waving a hand towards the building.

Men were so easy to manipulate.

* * *

><p>"How long do you think it will take?" Thomas asked her, later the same evening.<p>

Harley shrugged as she stuffed a drive-thru taco into her mouth, the shell crunching loudly against her teeth. The motel room hadn't seen maid service since she checked in. The rumpled bedding she sat on was stained with reddish-brown streaks, old blood from nights that she was too tired to clean herself up before sleep. Thomas sat across from her in a tiny chair, the small table next to him holding a laptop and multiple sheets of notes. The room was cramped, but it had become home to her.

Still chewing, she said, "Hard to tell. But tonight went very well." She grabbed her drink off the table, taking a swig to swallow down her food. "Did you get the photos?"

His foot pushed a case, that was on the floor, towards her. Wiping her hands on her pants, she picked it up and opened it. A camera lay inside, digital, expensive, with all the extras that any member of the paparazzi would love. A wicked grin crossed her face as she turned it on, scanning the photos that Thomas was tasked to take. Long shots, from the building adjacent to Bruce's penthouse, revealed Harley inside, sitting down with the playboy on one of his expensive leather couches. For the most part, the pictures showed completely innocent behavior between them. But a couple of the photos could be construed in another way. A handshake as they made a deal. A gentle touch on her shoulder as he tried to comfort her while she cried. A friendly hug before she left.

"The news is going to have a field day with these," she commented as she flipped through the camera's contents.

"It's not enough," he said.

Harley looked up. "Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head. It may take a couple of weeks but I'll get you something juicier."

"I hope you're not planning on sleeping with him." While his tone was joking, she couldn't help but notice the thread of jealousy hidden within.

Putting the camera back into its case, she picked up her taco again with a grin. "He'll never be worthy of my many skills. Not to mention, I could lose control and kill him by accident, and that would completely defeat the purpose of our game."

"Does that happen often? Losing control?" He sounded worried.

After swallowing another bite, she nodded. "Enough that I wouldn't want to risk it. The smallest thing can swing my emotions from one state to another. You've seen it happen a couple of times on a much lower level, but trust me when I say that it gets much worse."

"How much worse?"

"You don't want to ever know," she said, putting down her food again, completely serious. "Listen, I know I've been putting off your questions about the story I told Bruce. About my past. But know this, I didn't leave much out of that story. My life is a fucking disaster, filled with pain, passion, and death. And I'm perfectly okay with it."

Thomas shook his head in disbelief. "How can you be so cavalier about this?"

"Because I'm not like the rest of them out there." Her hand waved towards the door. "I've been trying to make it clear to you since day one. My mind is a storm of unfettered emotions that are constantly begging to be unleashed. I love letting go, just giving in and feeling whatever flows through me." She closed her eyes. "To feel the cut of a blade against skin, or a warm body underneath me, screaming in agony. To see flames towering high in a monument to my glory, or the passion that pain brings me, wrapping around me like an old friend." She shuddered at the vivid imagery in her mind, feeling her dark side rising.

"Harley?"

She didn't hear him, lost inside her head. "I want to roll around in blood, feel its wet slickness cover my body. I want to scream until my throat gives out with a wrath so violent that the city quivers in fear." Her eyelids cracked open, seeking the anxiety that lay just beneath the surface of the man before her. With slow, sensual movements, Harley climbed off the bed, converging on him. "I want to be naked, raw, depraved, enjoying the sensation of another's flesh against my own."

Thomas' pale skin became flushed at her last words. His energy enticed her inner beast, a lamb sitting still before her lion. Waiting to be her prey. Her hands dipped down to his lap and she ran her fingernails across his upper thighs, backing off before she touched the growing bulge in his pants. Thomas grasped her wrists, pulling them to his chest and looking into her eyes with a heated gaze. "Is that really what you want?"

Her lips curled upwards in an evil smile as she straddled his thighs. Harley brought her face close to his, until their lips were only an inch apart. Breathily, she murmured, "You have no idea."

And she kissed him harshly, her lips bruising against his as her hands rose to stroke the side of his neck. Thomas' arms wrapped around her back, jerking her closer until she could feel his hard length between her legs. A moan escaped him, vibrating against her lips as her fingers slipped into the softness of his red hair, her nails scratching against his scalp. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, the taste of mint greeting her, and she found that she no longer cared about the silent promise she made to herself. Everything inside her craved him.

But as his fingers slid under her shirt to run up and down her back gently, she became annoyed at his softness, needing the rough caresses that she was used to. Inspired to press his limits, she bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to enjoy the groan of pain that escaped him, savoring the blood that flowed from his new wound. His hands stilled on her back, uncertain about the direction she was going. Amused, she giggled against his lip, her nails scraping back down to the front of his neck. Thomas was accustomed to more gentile lover, it seemed, and that made her determined to push him beyond his limitations.

Her fingers stretched out to circle his throat as she nibbled at his lips. Before he knew what was happening, she squeezed hard, relishing the guttural sound his throat made as it was forced closed. Thomas' hands immediately came up to pull her choking hands away but she held firm, leaning back to stare into his panicked eyes. It had been too long since she watched the light fade away from someone's eyes as her hands controlled their ability to breathe. Seeing that in Thomas delighted her so much that she didn't want to stop. Harley wanted nothing more than to see her friend's eyes slowly glaze over until the void collected him.

Suddenly she was pushed off him, landing on the floor in a heap. Thomas was touching his throat in relief, gasping in a breath before saying, "What the fuck was that?"

"What?" She smirked from her position on the floor, her eyelids fluttering in innocence. "Can't handle a little rough foreplay?"

Her hands reached up to grasp his thighs again but he grabbed them, thrusting them away from him and stood, looking down at her with that same expression that she had seen so many times on others. The one that doubted her sanity. "You are seriously messed up."

Her smirk dropped, replaced by anger at his declaration. Getting to her feet, Harley faced him directly, eyes flashing with anger. "You fucking know who I am, asshole. What I am. And yet you still come back time and time again. So don't you fucking dare say that to me." She couldn't prevent her hand from flying up and slapping him in her wrath.

Thomas' eyes became dark, the same rage underneath that had his own hands around her neck almost a month ago. For a moment, she believed he may have understood her a little more, switching from lust to rage as quickly as she often did. But no, his rage was built on humiliation and the pain she caused him. Not the nonsensical ramblings of her wild tempest of emotions. And when he shoved her in return, her body falling backwards onto the bed, she had to force down the desire to attack him. No, she needed to see how he would proceed next, hoping he would let the rage drive him into his own destruction.

But Thomas didn't make another move, instead staring down at her, his eyes cold and menacing. "Never strike me again, Harley Quinn." The unspoken threat was implied.

The use of her chosen name shocked the anger out of her system as she watched him leave the motel room. The door slammed behind him. Harley felt her emotions settle down to a state of numbness as she resigned herself to the fact that she really was poison to everything she touched. Hearing his car screeching out of the parking lot, she picked up her half-eaten taco and sighed. "I tried to warn you, Thomas."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope all you Mr. J fans are happy that his POV has returned. I told you it would be awhile and I'm glad to be writing from his perspective again. Which of course means that there isn't too much left of this story. Maybe three or four more chapters. As for this chapter, I wanted to reiterate how messed up Harley's emotions are, and how out of control she can get. She's been pretty laid back for awhile so I thought it was time to ramp it up again. **

**And as always, thank you for reading! Please, if you can, take the time to let me know what you think of the story thus far if you haven't before. I'd love some feedback. Cheers! **


	17. Grand Finale

Chapter Seventeen: Grand Finale

The doors to the penthouse flew open as Harley stumbled in, grasping onto the walls to keep herself upright. Her fingertips left bloody streaks against the wall as she moved forward, searching for the man who could help her. Initially, the party-goers at the entrance ignored her until they noticed the trail of blood left in her wake. Then came the gasps, followed by the eerie silence in the wake of her procession. While she didn't look like her usual painted persona, everyone in Gotham recognized Harley Quinn from the multiple news reports on her, the bright smile of her Arkham staff photo seen by all. Injured as she was, the guests were reluctant to offer aid but they did not hinder her passage. But that was probably due to the gun in her other hand that she clutched to her side as a lifeline.

Her all black attire was torn in places, fresh wounds visible underneath, a tired look in her eyes. Blood trickled from her mouth from a split lip, her hair also matted with red from an apparent head injury. The deepest wounds at her shoulder and her stomach bled freely, dripping red onto the floor in ribbons. As the sea of people parted for her, she somehow managed to make it to the main gathering room. There, she spotted her only ally left, the brown hair and chiseled jaw of Bruce Wayne, a tuxedo covering him like a second skin, talking to some other familiar faces. People that, less than a year ago, had laughed at her jokes and promised to donate to Arkham's failing funds. She pushed herself away from the wall, shuffling her way towards Bruce with unsteady steps.

The sycophants that surrounded him finally noted her presence, confused and alarmed by her appearance, more gasps but oddly no screams. Within seconds, the entire room had gone silent as if a switch had been turned off. In slow motion, she kept her eyes on Bruce as he turned to take in the sight of her gravely injured self. Her hand extended towards him as she drew nearer, but her balance failed her and she collapsed onto the ground before him, the grip on her gun releasing. Her forehead touched the beautiful wood flooring, assaulted by the scent of spilled wine and pine cleaner. Forgoing his usual cowardly billionaire act, Bruce knelt down beside her on one knee, pushing the gun further away and checking the pulse at her throat.

"Call 911!" He shouted, an unusual panic heard in his tone, and then he turned her over to look her over, his eyes assessing her injuries. His voice was quiet as he spoke to her. "An ambulance is on its way, Harley. Hold on."

"Sorry 'bout ruining your party," she muttered, barely able to speak. She stared up into his hazel eyes, watching the concern and compassion fill him. "I didn't know where else to go."

* * *

><p>"<em>It's just hard," Harley said. "I mean, we're all supposed to be heartless and not care when people leave, but we're all still so human. I may be a psychopath but I have a heart. And it hurts to think he won't be part of my life anymore, simply because I can't control myself."<em>

_It was two days after the incident with Thomas and there she sat with Bruce, using him as a makeshift therapist and whining about her problems with her best friend. Even though they were fighting, she opted to refer to him as Hush, keeping his identity secret, although a strong part of herself wanted to toss his mask aside and let Bruce see his "friend" for what he truly was. Just another liar who wanted to bring down the best in the city. Her emotions were all over the place. Resentment, revenge, heartbreak. But despite her inclinations, she understood what happened wasn't Thomas' fault. It was hers. Her crazy mind unable to stop the basic instincts when lost in the moment. So Bruce got the watered down version of events, with no mention of any relationship with Hush prior to her criminal career._

"_And you and Hush haven't talked since?" Bruce asked, sipping his coffee. He sat across from her, in one of his plump leather chairs, seeming at ease. Although, it was wicked obvious to Harley that he was tense, ready for her to do anything and prepared to defend himself if she did._

"_What else is there to say?" She shook her head. "It's not something you can just sweep under the rug. I almost killed him. What's worse is that I wanted to kill him, just so I could see the light behind his eyes die out. I wanted his cooling skin under my fingers and to feel his heart stop, and he could see that desire in me. How do you apologize for something like that?"_

"_Generally, you start with 'I'm sorry' and then move on from there," Bruce said with an ironic smile, placing the mug on the coffee table between them. "But maybe you need to look at this from another point of view. This might be good for you. You've said he was your last link to the criminal circuit in Gotham. Maybe severing that link is what you need right now."_

"_A step to moving on?" She sounded doubtful. _

"_Exactly. Since you've made it clear that you want to start over with your life, getting rid of the last vestiges of your criminal lifestyle is a step in the right direction."_

_Harley turned, looking out the window of Bruce's penthouse, observing the rain that was clinging to the surface of the window. Reminiscent of her own turmoil. "Problem is, every time I try to pull away, something out there tries to pull me back in."_

* * *

><p>"It's fine, Harley," Bruce said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and applying pressure to the wound on her stomach. He ignored the whispers of the crowd as they began to talk amongst themselves in curiosity as to the scene being played out before them. Bruce only had eyes for the wounded woman on the floor. "Who did this?"<p>

"Hush," Harley gasped out, feeling the pain in her shoulder from a deep gash mixing with the pleasure centers of her mind. As hurt as she was, she was in heaven again. Not since the bullet wound had she felt so alive with sensation. "I don't think he liked my apology." She tried to laugh but it only came out as a cough. "Am I dying?"

His eyes were scanning her, unsure. "I don't know."

She smiled up at him. "You know, I always dreamed it would be him to do the deed, my Mr. J. With his cold eyes and warm hands. It would be the final step to our dance, a finale that would light the world on fire as he laughed and laughed with my corpse in his arms. It was always meant to be, those last moves, that finale." She wasn't making sense to him and she knew it. "But to be done in by a fucking mummy, this is insulting."

Harley had no doubt that some douchebag with a cell phone was probably recording her death scene, ready to make an extra buck with the local media. It should have pissed her off something fierce, but try as she might, she was apathetic. Not even the others that were gossiping quietly in their fine clothes and expensive jewelry could elicit a reaction from her. It was as if a spotlight had formed in the center of the room and it was just her and Bruce alone, isolated away from the world. Everything else fell away to background noise.

"Just keep holding on, Harley. The paramedics will be here soon."

Bruce shifted to sit fully on the floor next to her, one of his knees bent upwards. He wasn't stupid enough to move her again, fearing her injuries might be compounded by any motion. One hand kept the pressure on her stomach while the other reached down to grasp her fingers, willing to be the final bit of warm contact she had in this world. It was almost a romantic gesture, a final bit of compassion, and it was such a human thing to do. She understood, after all their conversation, that Bruce would offer this bit of comfort to anyone dying on his floor, but with Harley, there was greater significance. They had bonded, and it meant more to Bruce than a bit of comfort. All those private moments, the talking, the laughter, the healing. He wanted her to know that she wasn't alone.

"You're too good for this act," she said, looking up into his eyes. "You need to show Gotham your truest colors. Your kindness, your strength, your compassion. Don't just hide behind the boardroom or your reputation. You've made me a better person. Now promise me that you'll do the same for yourself."

Their eyes continued to gaze at one another, never looking away. He held such a sadness for her fading life, she could tell, and an anger for what had been done to her. It was breathtakingly beautiful to see it on his face. Harley never thought anyone would grieve over her death. Mr. J was too cold and her family had long since given up their tears for her fate. But there was someone who would mourn her. She could feel the tears forming in her eyes as she thought of how bare and empty her grave would be, only a state-made plaque marking her plot. Harleen Quinzel and two dates, her birth and her death. Or perhaps she would be incinerated into ash, nothing left but a small box. Not even a nice urn. Death was chillier than the worst nights of Gotham's winter. But still, someone would shed tears for her.

"I promise," Bruce whispered, squeezing her hand gently.

Again, she smiled through the pain. "I think I could have loved you, Bruce."

* * *

><p><em>There was more than enough room in his main space to do a demonstration. The couple of pieces of furniture in the way had been pushed aside, and Bruce stood at the end of her path watching, amused. "You find this therapeutic?"<em>

_Harley grinned at him, pulling her hair back into a high ponytail. "Better than sex, in my opinion." And she stretched her arms up, moving her neck from side to side. "Besides, it's relaxing and it allows me to get out my frustrations without turning to violence."_

_Bruce waved a hand towards the empty floor. "Then by all means."_

_A quick stretch of her legs and Harley took off at a small run. The space was more than enough, larger than she had seen in quite some time. Being his friend had its perks. As she jogged to the center of the space, her body spun into a basic cartwheel to begin her tumbling set. When she landed, she twisted to do a forward handspring, her hands popping against the floor with familiar ease before flipping her legs over. As her feet touched the ground, she leaped back into the air, bouncing into a front flip. However, the floor had no give, not like the spring loaded gymnastics mats she was accustomed to and she underextended as a result. Her body flipped over but unable to complete, she landed flat on her back with a loud thud._

_Bruce immediately came over to her, worry creasing his brows but her embarrassed laughter dismissed any concern he had, Harley's face staring up at the stunning vaulted ceilings of his penthouse. He came to stand in front of her feet, extending his hands down to her to help her up. From her position on the ground, she smiled up at him. "Your floor is deceptively firm."_

"_This isn't exactly a gym."_

"_You seriously need to buy a decent mat," she laughed again, grabbing his hands to stand. _

_Bruce pulled her up to him, smiling down at her. "It's not like I have people tumbling in my living room every day. Seriously, though, are you okay?"  
><em>

"_I think my pride is hurt more than my body. I used to be so good," she said, thinking about her days of yore when she could stick a landing on any surface and listen to the roar of the crowd cheering at her victory._

"_You still are," he said. "You're just out of practice."  
><em>

_Their positioning was intimate and she felt the smile dropping from her face as she looked up at him. Their hands were entwined between them, not having let go of each other yet. As she grinned at him, she could feel the heat coming off his skin in waves. Oh damn. Bruce was too close, and he smelled so good, a musky cologne that invaded her mind. Harley couldn't stop herself from leaning into him, drawing his lips to hers in a kiss. His lips were soft, like the caress of silk, but as she felt him respond back, she jerked herself away in shock._

"_Oh god, I'm so sorry! I don't know why I did that." Flushed with more embarrassment, she looked around the room and headed immediately for her jacket. "I need to go."  
><em>

"_Harley, no, it's okay," he said, but she had already grabbed her jacket and was heading to the exit._

"_I always fuck everything up," she said, berating herself as she reached the door. She turned back for a moment. "I'll, uh, call you later."_

_But she never did._

* * *

><p>The fresh sound of gunfire had the mob panicking immediately. It was one thing for the masses to see Harley's gun when she first arrived, unused in her blood soaked hand, but quite another to hear the whipping crack of bullets screaming through the air. Cries of terror filled the room at the sudden noise, and both Harley and Bruce's heads jerked towards the door. It was easy for her to guess who was interrupting the party. And as expected, Hush sauntered in, a gun in both his hands. He stalked like a predator past the guests, ignoring all the rabble and focusing on his target, one Harley Quinn laying on the floor. Coming to finish the job he started.<p>

"'Every action must be due to one of seven causes,'" Hush said in that deep voice of his. "'Chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reasoning, anger, or appetite.' Which one do you think this action is caused by?"

The party-goers gave him a wide berth as he moved to stand a few feet away from Bruce and Harley, sneering down at them, his right gun raising to aim at Harley. "Well?"

"Haven't you done enough damage, Hush?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. Gathering the remaining strength inside her, she released Bruce's hand and slowly forced herself to her feet. Bruce followed suit, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder to keep her upright when she started to wobble. It took a moment for her to clear her head before she could continue speaking. "Or do you really hate me so much that you have to make sure you kill me extra hard?"

"Oh Harley, my little darling, you never did understand," Hush said, cocking his gun. "This was never about hate. It's about cleaning up my loose ends."

"Wait," Bruce said, moving in front of Harley to keep her safe from harm. "You don't have to do this. Just let her go."

Another sneer from the bandaged man. "Always trying to save the girl, Wayne. But really, do you think Harley would do the same for you? She's a selfish, demanding, overly emotional whore." His words were spat out like a curse. "All she cares about is herself."

The overdramatic description made her roll her eyes. "Yeah, unlike you," she said sarcastically. "But you've just shown how little you know me. I care far more than you think."

"Then prove it." Hush's demand was accentuated with a wave of his gun.

Harley knew what he wanted and she found her eyes gazing up at Bruce's back, his arm turned behind him to guard her from the killer. She touched his shoulder lightly and the billionaire twisted to look at her, shaking his head. He understood as well what Hush was challenging her to do. "You have a choice, Harley."

"And I'm making it. I can't let you die for me, Bruce," she whispered. "Your life is worth so much more than my own."

"Harley," Bruce began, but she moved her blood covered hand down his arm to stop his words.

"At least this way, my life held some meaning in the end." And she smiled, proudly, up at him before pushing him aside with what remained of her drained strength. Then her eyes turned to Hush and she nodded, standing stock still for her execution. "Do it."

There was no hesitation. The gun in his hand fired. Screams erupted again at the sound, the panic capturing the room once more. Harley looked down at her lower chest to see the blood gushing from the tiny hole in the fabric of her shirt. It didn't hurt. It was more bothersome than anything else and the mess it made reminded her of her many nights of destruction. She couldn't help but think of Mr. J as she collapsed once again to the floor, her arms falling limply to her sides. Her head lolled to the side to view Bruce's shocked face. A grand joke. With the blood pooling around her, her lips turned once again to a smile. Mr. J would have laughed. He would have gotten it.

And then Bruce bent over to pick up the gun that Harley had dropped earlier, and rose, aiming it at Hush. "You bastard," he said, and Harley could hear the terse emotion in his voice. "You didn't have to kill her." He cocked the hammer of the pistol.

Harley threw up one last silent prayer that he would find his own internal fire and avenge her in a hailstorm of bullets. But before Bruce had a chance to make his own choice, to decide whether or not to shoot Hush, the laughter she had been hearing in her head was suddenly ringing in her ears. The laughter of Mr. J. He was here.

The clown had come out to play.

* * *

><p><em>A block away from the penthouse, she stood, looking up at the glittering lights of Gotham's downtown district. The noises of the city were like a symphony to her ears, all the vitality of an urban environment. The air was cool but no longer cold as the seasons had begun to change. Dressed in only a simple black turtleneck and matching jeans, she blended into the background, her blond hair floating around her as the breeze that passed through the buildings blew over her. It seemed the perfect night to finish what she started. <em>

_Turning into the alley, she slipped the small pistol of out of her pocket, looking for him amongst the shadows. Beyond a dumpster, she spotted the white wrappings that wound around his head, marking his location and she crouched down to try and get the jump on him. She didn't believe he spotted her, but Thomas was often craftier than she gave him credit for and she was prepared. With deft movements, she creeped her way to the other side of the dumpster. Now or never. _

_She rose lithely, the gun aimed at his head and smirked. "Bang, bang, you're dead, darling."_

_The bandaged head tilted towards her, seemingly unconcerned. "Look up," was all he said._

_Her eyes lifted above her, the fire escape of a building just above her position. And hanging from the bottom rung of the sliding ladder was a small pistol, a string attached to the trigger. She looked back to Thomas, her eyes widening. And he merely smiled, raising his hand to show he held the string between his gloved fingers. Then he yanked hard on it, and she cried out as something wet hit her head. Annoyed, she narrowed her eyes as he laughed at her. _

"_No, you're dead," he said, dropping the string and thus the tension holding the water pistol aloft. It careened downward, colliding with the back of her head with a soft thump before it fell to the ground. _

_With a groan she touched the back of her head, simultaneously irritated with Thomas, and pleased at the pain that was beginning to throb at the crown of her scalp. Her fingers came back red and she sniffed at them, her nose wrinkling at the metallic scent. "You filled it with blood? Seriously?"_

"_Realism is the key, you said," Thomas said, rounding the dumpster to approach her. Then he swept her up into his arms in a tight embrace. _

_Despite any confessions she had made to Bruce Wayne, Harley had repaired her friendship with Thomas over a pizza the day after their fight. It didn't take much for Thomas to forgive her as he was one of two people who understood her unpredictable mood swings. And he was more so angry at himself for his wrathful reaction after she tried to kill him. Their awkward conversation led to several moments of hilarity as each tried to apologize, which told her one thing. Thomas was in it for the long haul with her. Friends for life. _

_So their plan to destroy Bruce Wayne continued without much of a hiccup and she found the memories of her problems with Thomas to be quite useful in convincing Wayne of her sincerity. In the meantime, she kept her friend at a slight distance, not wanting a repeat of previous events. He seemed fine with the new arrangement, careful to never bring up her emotional states. And over the next month, Thomas was able to capture her and Bruce in several interesting photos, culminating in the kiss, which had been approximately one week ago. Now, they had enough evidence to bring down the Wayne empire. Only one item was left on the agenda._

"_Yes, I suppose a real head injury would leave me too woozy to perform," Harley said, pulling back from him. "You got the kit?"_

_Thomas hoisted a backpack off the ground near them and opened it, tossing her a small box of blank rounds. She smiled, opening the chamber of her empty pistol and filling the slots with the blanks. If Wayne used the pistol as she desired, he would be none the wiser as to its contents. "You got the blood packets?"_

_He rifled around the bottom of the kit and pulled out a small bag of blood that was attached to a short metal plate. He passed it over to her waiting hands, nabbing a set of tape from the pack before rising to stand behind her. "The blood should be warm enough, I think, as long as you don't stay outside too long." She lifted her shirt without hesitation, holding the plate-side to her lower chest so he could tape it securely to her body. "And whatever you do, stay still when I shoot. They may be small caliber but even a .22 can puncture a lung."_

"_If that happens, at least I'll have a good surgeon on call." Harley lowered her shirt back down when he finished and checked the lines of her turtleneck. The pushup bra she wore tented the material of the shirt below her breasts, enough that the bulge wasn't noticeable. "Perfect. And I double checked with Falcone. The ambulance is set up and ready. And he says he's got the cops taken care of, as well."  
><em>

"_I have to ask how you pulled that one off."  
><em>

_She bent down to the backpack, searching it for the blade she asked him to bring. "Couple months ago, I was on a job and his men got a bit handsy. I called in a debt on Falcone for the disrespect they showed."_

"_Surprised you let them live."_

"_I didn't," she stated, grinning at the memory of Stocky, Baldy, and the other dead goons. "But they weren't family, just hired hands, and that made Falcone obligated to me." She held the knife out to Thomas. "Plus it helps that I was his shrink at Arkham. The man adores me."_

"_Who doesn't?" Thomas muttered, taking the blade. "Where do you want it?"  
><em>

"_Shoulder and stomach for the deep wounds. Make it clean." Harley stood before him, a blank canvas for him to strike._

_But he didn't move. Instead, he smiled at her. "I just wanted to say thanks, Harley. I really appreciate the risks you've taken for this."_

"_Not much of a risk," she lied, not wanting him to know how hard it was to dredge up all her old memories to fool the target. It was more dangerous than she would ever admit to him. "It's not hard to bring down an icon, Thomas. Between the photos and the witness accounts from tonight, the media will be painting Bruce Wayne as my lover by noon tomorrow. And if he actually pulls the trigger on you, he'll be as much of a villain as any of us. And the media does love to see a good man fall." _

_Harley laughed, unable to contain her excitement at the culmination of all her hard work. "Now hurry up, the blood's getting cold."_

* * *

><p>As the maniacal laughter filled the room, Harley felt that familiar sense of dread that had so often plagued her waking hours. But his laughter wasn't his usual glee, no, it was filled with malice and threat. Something darker lay beneath and it chilled her to the bone. The guests of Wayne had grown silent again, an homage to the madman in their midst and she felt the energy of the room change, a sense of expectation, perhaps because Harley Quinn was so rarely seen without the infamous Joker. Many of these people had been present the last time he interrupted a Wayne party, the Dent fundraiser in this very same room. But there was something subdued about his arrival. Only the laughter. No gunfire, no stomping of his usual henchmen in masks. He was alone.<p>

Something about that pissed her off. The sheer audacity of the man to come at the most critical moment of her plan, and without even the luggish loons at his side. He wanted to fuck up her ambitions on his own, just to spite her, it seemed. Her head finally rose to take in the room but walls blocked the entrance where the laughter was emanating from. Only the terrified eyes of the people looking in that direction gave any indication of where Mr. J was standing. Bruce's borrowed gun had lowered to his side as he considered his options. And Hush had turned to face the direction of the clown as well. All eyes were away from what was really important. Damn him. Damn Mr. J. She had been so close.

And that was when she remembered her final words to her lover when she left the house. _"If I see you again, I'll kill you."_ If Mr. J had taught her anything, it was to stick to her word. Because there was nothing worse than an empty threat.

In real time, all her thoughts had only taken a half second to pass through her mind before she made the decision to scrap the plan with Bruce and take care of what was really important. Her impulsive side had won out yet again. Thomas had more than enough evidence to take down Wayne, even without their carefully constructed finale. And Harley's anger was growing to a bursting point at Mr. J's interruption, wanting to show him, more than ever, that she was no longer his little puppet. He couldn't just barge in and destroy her first public display of freedom. She would show him that there were real consequences to his actions. She was not the Batman and she would show Mr. J no mercy.

She kicked up to her feet in one motion, garnering the attention of a very surprised Bruce who thought her at death's door. Cracking her neck from side to side, she then winked at him and gave him a mocking wave. "Sorry Bruce. Bigger fish to fry." She could hear her seething anger escape her lips as the words came out crisply. She wasn't fucking around anymore.

From the entrance, the laughter finally died down drawing into a distorted voice that made her shiver at its intensity. "Harley, Harley, trying to play the big game."

She still couldn't see Mr. J, the wall blocking his body, but his voice echoed around the room as if it was designed to carry his words directly to her. There was something so wrong about the way he spoke, although she couldn't quite place her finger on it, and she wondered if he had decided to come finish their dance at last. He'd had more than enough opportunity in the past but perhaps learning about her intentions towards Wayne had set him off. Triggered the animal within to create that strangely dissonant tone that she had never heard before. But her own beast was always more passionate, more feral than his, and Mr. J must have forgotten that as he taunted her with abandon. Then again, Maybe he didn't forget. They both knew, in the bitter end, it was always destined to be her and him, fighting it out. From the moment their dance had begun, this fate was inevitable. And Harley was determined to be the victor.

Crossing the room to Hush, she snatched the gun out of his left hand and gave him a look, one that said she was done playing. Behind the bandages, Thomas eyed her with trepidation. He had never seen that look before in her eyes. Harley was a woman who enjoyed every bit of life, who reveled in blood and laughed at danger. Never before had he seen the true demon that lay within in, the one that was nothing but rage. She had kept that from him all this time and now, his words, said in anger, were about to come true. He was about to witness how messed up she really was inside.

Her anger had built inside her to the boiling point and she grinned ferociously to show her teeth, letting the beast claw at her mind and push her over the edge. Despite any feelings she still held towards Mr. J, she was ready to taste real freedom. No longer would she be fearful of his dark eyes and controlling hands. One way or the other, this ended tonight. But she had to give one final instruction before she could give herself entirely to her wrath.

"Get as far away from me as you can," she told Thomas, her urgency commanding his obedience.

And then her vision turned red and her mind became a disjointed set of images. Her berserker frenzy had taken over and there was no Harley Quinn anymore. There was only the spirit of wrath, the temper of fire, the oncoming storm. It exploded over her in deadly rampage as she lifted her gun. The moments began to swim together until there was nothing but action, the need for blood, the desire to skin her enemy alive. Her head lifted towards the heavens and she screamed with a wrath that would strike fear into God himself.

Rambling pictures floated through her mind, incoherent and disconnected from the rest of her. Hush moving away from her. Shoving and kicking people out of the way with no regard to their fates. The wood paneled entrance with trails of her blood against the wall. The sight of Mr. J and his twisted smile. Greasepaint and purple. The way his eyes opened further to take in her state, all blood covered and filled with an inferno. Turning away from her. Escaping. Never. The gun aiming at him, the burst of gunfire through the air. The grunt as he hit the ground. More shots, more screaming from around her until there was nothing but an empty revolver in her hands.

Harley's mind cleared, perhaps sensing the danger was gone, or perhaps unable to sustain the berserker for too long. It didn't matter. There were bodies all around her, some guests with bullets in them, some people having dropped to the ground to avoid being in her line of fire. All their finery, all their luxury reduced to the same moans of pain that she'd heard so many times in the worst neighborhoods. They understood, now, how horrific and terrifying the world could truly be. It didn't matter how polished the place was or how sophisticated they pretended to be. Their wealth couldn't stop a tragedy. They were as frail as any other human. Mortal and ugly, just like her.

Her eyes focused beyond the crowd to the only body that mattered, flat on its stomach like a child sleeping. The purple coat, now riddled with holes. The green hair, wet with blood, brain matter splattered across her field of vision. To his white cheek, pressed against the ground in finality. Hands spread out to the sides of the body. The smear of red over his scar still smiling despite the plasma pouring from his back, leaking crimson over his beautiful ensemble as if Harley had pressed her body too close and melded into his costume.

And the one black eye visible, forever opened in the throes of death, no longer seeing, no longer absorbing his precious details. Even the void beyond could not capture the cold that usually penetrated from that orb, staring into her, reducing her to nothing. It was blank, barren of its intense gaze. Harley backed away from the sight, staring in disbelief at the carnage, at the rapidly cooling corpse before her eyes.

Holy shit. She had really just killed Mr. J.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Never fear, my faithful readers. This isn't the end of this story and things aren't always what they appear to be. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to this story! **


	18. Class Dismissed

Chapter Eighteen: Class Dismissed

Harley was numb. She barely registered the hand on her shoulder or the empty pistol being pulled from her hand. All she could do was stare at the corpse of her lover, a man who had completely changed her life, the one visible eye opened in death. The moans and screams of pain around her were ephemera, scaling down as the time past. Footsteps stomped about, shouts of a secondary exit now that Harley was finished. There was no concept of where she was, what was going on, who was touching her. She ignored it all, focused on the death of yet another man she loved. Again, by her hand. And she suddenly couldn't breathe.

She dropped down to the floor, hacking coughs erupting from her lungs, unable to suck in a single breath. The world was drawing dim she felt a hand on her head, soothing, words spoken in her direction. The room had grown silent except for the occasional groan of the injured or dying. And then other voices came, authoritative, demanding. The hand on her head trailed down her hair to her back, gently rubbing as she continued to choke on her own respiration. Her body shook with the agony of loss, the sweet torture of hell.

And everything turned to black.

Her eyes opened to bright lights and the feeling of fingers on her lids. "She's conscious, sir," a voice said.

She swatted the hands away, a futile gesture, as the voice continued. "It's alright, Miss Quinn. You just fainted. You're in an ambulance and you're safe. Mr. Falcone sent us to pick you up. Do you remember?"

All she could muster was the one thought that continued to spiral through her mind, a whisper. "Mr. J."

"Harley, can you hear me?" Another voice, familiar, Thomas.

She blinked again, the spots in her eyes beginning to clear along with her thoughts. "Yeah."

"We're in the ambulance you arranged," Thomas said, his bandaged head coming into her field of vision. "We got lucky. The police arrived just as we pulled away. And you're fine. You just passed out."

Harley nodded, mutely, her eyes glancing around her surroundings. Her body was on a basic gurney, though not strapped in as normally would be the case. The first voice belonged to a man in a paramedic uniform. He was sitting behind her in a jump seat. Parallel to her, Thomas was sitting on a soft bench, his legs propped up on the cushions, though he showed no sign of injury. The ambulance was moving, the occasional bump startling Harley. She couldn't see the other paramedic from her position, only the side of his or her uniform and the hat that covered their head. But the strangeness of Thomas's position made her wonder why his legs weren't on the ground. Her eyes turned downwards towards the floor and she discovered the reason. A body bag.

She didn't need to ask. Of course, Thomas wouldn't have allowed them to leave without Mr. J. He would want her to say her proper farewells to her former life. Her eyes welled with tears of unspoken gratitude as she looked from the black bag up to Thomas. He only nodded in return, taking her hand and squeezing gently. In his own eyes, there was a sadness as well. Not for the death of Mr. J but compassion for her and her loss. He understood the magnitude of what she had done and how it would forever be scarred on her insides. Her emotions ran a mile a minute ranging from deep sorrow to relief, profound joy to searing anger. So much was wrapped up in what lay in that bag. The cooling body of someone who she loved dearly but also hated fiercely. Harley was free, but she wondered if the cost was worth the sacrifice.

"I can't believe you did it," he said.

She stared into his blue eyes, trying to force all the emotion out of her. It wasn't time yet to feel. She needed her wits about her. "I was keeping my word," was all she said.

"What word?" Thomas questioned, his brow knitting in confusion.

But she just shook her head. He might understand but she wasn't ready to vocalize her last, bitter moments with Mr. J at the house. Instead, she said, "What happened to Wayne?"

Thomas looked like he wanted to press the issue but at the last second, changed his mind. "He disappeared with the crowd after you blew your cover."

"You still think we should continue?" Harley asked.

"I don't see a reason why not. We have more than enough."

She nodded, looking away from him to stare at the white ceiling of the ambulance, her head resting back against the pillow. They said nothing more, waiting for the vehicle to reach its destination. She found it funny that they were in an ambulance and yet the paramedic wasn't doing a thing to help her injuries. Likely on orders from the armed man at her side. Her shoulder and stomach had stopped their bleeding, it seemed, but they still stung in a exquisite way. And the metal plate at her lower chest was rubbing her skin raw underneath, foreign and obnoxious. She couldn't wait to get the damn thing off her.

After what seemed like an hour, the vehicle finally stopped and the engine shut off. The driver got out and rounded the ambulance, opening the back doors. Harley's head lifted to look out the doors, her eyes bypassing the bowed head of the driver, surprised at the lack of cool air. They had pulled over in a warmed warehouse. As she peered past the driver, she noticed the tall pillar supports that rose to the high ceiling. Metal girders lined the top of the room and large pallets lined the entirety of the floor. In the center, a desk stood, riddled with bullet holes. She recognized this place. It was the same warehouse from her first solo assignment. Where she killed Falcone's men. She laughed to herself. Carmine did have a sense of humor after all.

The paramedic in the jump seat behind her unstrapped himself and bent down to the floor next to her, his hands grasping the board that the body bag was strapped to. Not wanting to watch as they moved the body of her lover, she glanced over to Thomas, whose eyes were staring down at the body bag, his body tense as if expecting Mr. J to rise up from the grave. It would be so like him, too. Wouldn't be the first time he pulled that trick.

"Hush?" she said quietly to get his attention, using his moniker to preserve his identity from the two mobster paramedics. His eyes lifted to her, his expression strained. It was curious. "Are you alright?"

The paramedic blocked their line of sight as he passed by, the board gripped in his hands. When he passed, the strained look was gone from Thomas' face. "It's just hard to believe that he's dead."

"Everyone dies. It's a simple fact of life." she said, sitting up and throwing her legs over the side of the gurney. She was surprised at how calm she sounded, her insides wanting to scream. "I'll be dead soon enough thanks to my current lifestyle. So will you if you keep it up" She pointed towards the paramedic who had climbed out of the vehicle, placing the body bag on the floor of the warehouse. "Hell, even that guy will die at some point."

"I couldn't agree more," a new, extremely familiar voice said. "How about right now?"

Harley's eyes, locked on Thomas, widened in shock just as the gunshot rang out. She heard the thump of a body hitting the ground and felt her breathing accelerate. Very slowly, she turned her eyes towards the open doors, and gasped as she saw him. Dressed in a paramedics uniform, hiding in plain sight as the driver, a gun in his hand. No makeup, but he wouldn't use it when he was playing the disguise game. His hair under a baseball cap, the carved smile across his lips. But it was unmistakably him. Mr. J.

Her mouth moved, forming words that surprised her. "Oh good, I get to kill you twice." It was a stupid thing to say, considering the only weapon she had was the knife in her pocket, but she couldn't help that smartass impulse inside of her.

Mr. J gave her a sardonic smile before tilting his head to take both her and Thomas in. Then he took two large steps to the back of the ambulance, aiming the gun at her best friend. "Hand over the guns, Tommy-boy."

If Thomas was surprised at Mr. J's knowledge of his identity, he didn't show it. Carefully, he unholstered his guns and dropped them to the floor of the ambulance, kicking them over without being asked. He knew the drill, nerves of steel. Mr. J grabbed the guns and tossed them haphazardly behind him, not bothering to see where they landed. Harley kept her eyes peeled for them, understanding that knowledge might potentially save her life.

Mr. J waved the gun at them, indicating they should exit, stepping to the side of the doors. She met Thomas' eyes and nodded. There was no other choice. Mr. J was not one to be argued with. As mixed as her feelings were before, when she thought him dead, it was nothing compared to now, her internal blender having been turned on. And yet, she couldn't deny the feeling of sheer relief she felt when she saw him. She hadn't killed him. He was alive and breathing and as vital as ever. His intensity was as palpable as ever, radiating off him in waves that consumed her and made her want to laugh in joy. As she stepped out the vehicle, she was torn between kissing him and slugging him. Her mind was at war.

She carefully stepped over the body bag, watching as Mr. J took the cap off his head, his familiar curls falling wildly down to his shoulders. As Thomas exited behind her, Mr. J grabbed him around the neck with his gun arm, knife flashing in his off hand. A swift surprise attack, one that Thomas was unable to defend against, as the knife slashed through the bandages on his head. The sound of tearing fabric, the grimace of pain on Thomas' face as the blade met skin. The only reason, Harley figured, that Thomas didn't struggle was because he knew Mr. J wasn't going for real damage. As soon as the wrapping hit the floor, Mr. J pushed Thomas forward towards her, and then he leaned back against the open ambulance door.

"Too many masks as of late," Mr. J said, far too casual for the situation.

"You're one to talk," Thomas muttered, touching the side of his face where the knife had dug in. Harley gave it a cursory glance but noted the injury was minor. It would bleed something fierce but it wouldn't scar.

Another tilt of his head, eyes narrowing, and Mr. J fired his gun at Thomas. Thomas dropped to his knees, clutching at his chest where the slug had implanted into his body armor. Harley crouched down next to him, instinctively, to check on his condition. His breathing was shallow, the impact having knocked the wind out of him. She rubbed her hand on his back in encouragement.

"Just breathe," she said. "In, out." She breathed with her words to help him.

Her position jammed her own makeshift body armor into her lower chest, cutting into the skin under her breasts. It was too distracting to dismiss anymore and she reached under her shirt, yanking the metal plate hard and ripping it from the tape that secured it in place. The tape scorched her skin as it tore but she merely smiled at the sensation, knowing she would need that fire to deal with whatever was about to come. The blood bag only had lingering amounts of fluid inside, most of its contents drying onto her shirt and pants. The indent of the .22 bullet was right in the center. Thomas really had amazing aim. A true marksman.

Tossing the plate to the ground with a loud clang, she stood again, her hands on her hips. A quick glance down at Thomas assured her that he would be fine. She turned her eyes towards Mr. J. "So why the deception?" She nodded towards the body bag.

Mr. J put a hand over his heart, his unadorned eyes widening in innocence. "Me?" Then he laughed. "Oh Harley, you really are an idiot sometimes. I kept hoping you would figure this all out ages ago but obviously, I was mistaken. Either way..." He trailed off.

She knew it was better to ignore his insults to her person and just focus on the point he was trying to make. "Figure what out?"

"That you've been played."

That made her pause. "How so?" Obviously she had been played by whoever was in the body bag, but Mr. J's tone made it seem like so much more.

"Always so blind to what's around you that you don't see who the true villain is." His gun moved to aim directly at Thomas as he finally stood. "Sorry to bust up your plan there, sport. It was meticulously effective, though it left little room for improvisation."

Harley looked over to Thomas confused. Not the Bruce Wayne plan. Mr J would have known it was her design. So what did Thomas have to do with any of this? "What is he talking about?"

"I have no idea," Thomas replied, his eyes on the clown.

"Ah, ah ah," Mr. J tsked with glee in his expression. "Think it's high time you came clean with her, don't you, Tommy?"

Thomas said nothing, his posture tense, his face stoic and blank, despite any pain he was feeling from the earlier shot to his chest. Mr. J continued to stare at him with delight in his eyes, like he was peeling off the wings of insects. Harley looked between the two men, starting to get pissed at being left out of their silent conversation. "Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Mr. J turned his smile to her. "Seems he's a little shy so I'll be more than happy to explain. Your dearest best friend has been using you. All in some petty attempt at revenge on me." His eyes turned back to Thomas. "I mean, really, did you think you could pull the wool over my eyes? The entire affair was so transparent. I wonder why you bothered." Mr. J's fingers wiggled in the air, as if it didn't matter.

"Then why did you let it continue," Thomas said through clenched teeth. Hatred was seething beneath his words.

"You should know, by now, that I love a good show." The clown grinned. "But the curtain must fall eventually."

Harley was sick of being the broken record of questions and instead just raised an eyebrow at Mr. J, her eyes showing the undisguised annoyance at his constant lead-ins with no answers. She had gotten used to the strange way he explained things over the months, but it was still just as irritating as when she was his psychiatrist. Half-truths and missing information. That was his game and he did love to draw things out as long as possible. So she stared, waiting impatiently for him to gloat over how clever he was. She didn't have to wait long.

Mr. J motioned the gun towards the body bag. "Why don't you take a look, Harley?"

She knelt down next to the body bag, pushing the arm of the dead paramedic off the black plastic. Lowering the zipper, she was confronted again by the dead eyes of Mr. J, the greasepaint smeared with blood stains. But now, this close to the face, she could see the imperfections, the difference between the corpse and the man before her. The scars were all wrong, not quite the same curl to the right cheek. And there was something wrong about the face itself, as if it was melting.

Mr. J crouched down on the other side of the bag, his eyes constantly darting between her and Thomas before he reached out and grasped the top of the dead man's face. The medical gloves covering his hand dug in, reaching almost magically under the skin, and Harley realized that it was prosthetic makeup. Of course, that was why it was so close and yet so different. This guy didn't have a life cast of Mr. J and pictures could only allow so much perfection. In one swift motion, Mr. J ripped away the mask of the copy cat. The scars peeled off and tiny gelatin filled packets slid off the cheeks, revealing the face of the man she killed. And she recognized him instantly.

It was Geoffrey.

"In this case, the butler did do it." Mr. J laughed, standing fully again.

Her mind was brimming with confusion, so many questions. "But I watched him die," Harley said, thinking back to the moment when Geoffrey was shot by Crane's man. "There was no way he could have survived."

She heard a snort of annoyance and looked up as Mr. J picked up the dented metal plate she had cast aside earlier. "Faking a death is easy if you know what you're doing. Tell me, whose idea was it to use this?"

Her eyes immediately went to Thomas. It had been his idea. Thomas shook his head slowly, as if he was internally sighing at his own failure. And her eyes narrowed. "Why would you do that?"

Before Thomas could answer her, Mr. J jumped in. "Because, darling, he's a liar just like the rest of them. He set this entire ordeal in motion, then set this guy loose," and he kicked at Geoffrey's corpse, "just to keep my attention away from you. So he could work on you."

Harley, then, remembered the little clues that she had missed. The greasepaint on the door handle on the second floor when she had been hunting Crane's men. She had assumed it was from Mr. J but she was willing to bet that the door led to Geoffrey's room. And the smudge of dirt she had seen under his eye when he caught her outside her room, right before Thomas studied her infected stitches. It wasn't dirt but makeup. It added up. But she wondered how many crimes of the butler's had been attributed to Mr. J?

"So, McDonalds? The Stock Exchange? The zoo? That was all Geoffrey?" She asked.

Mr. J looked down at her with a derisive sneer, tossing away the metal plate he was holding. The clang punctuated his words. "Did you honestly think that was my style? And no, I wasn't the one to break Crane out, either. All part of his schemes." His eyes turned towards Thomas. "I did enjoy that bit, though. A clever way to break her, using the Scarecrow. Wish I had thought of it." He smirked then snapped. "Oh wait, I did. Seems you've been copying me in more ways than one."

Harley blinked and stood from her kneeling position. She couldn't look at Thomas or Geoffrey anymore. She wanted answers and the one man who had them was in front of her. She stepped over the body bag again, crossing the invisible line that separated them. "Stop dancing around it and just tell me, already."

His gun still aimed at Thomas, no longer seeing her as a threat, and he turned his head towards her, the smile lighting his face. "Since I doubt your bestest friend will fill you in, why not? Let's go back to the beginning. And that starts with a bullet."

Constantly, his eyes flickered between her and Thomas as he spoke, his hands waving in grandiose gestures to accentuate his points, like the story smiths of the days of old. And once again, she found herself as his audience, as she once had been in Arkham. Weaving and crafting his tale with his strange way of speaking. She almost wanted to sit down in front of him, like a child, fascinated by his words. But Harley didn't want to miss out on the grand scheme he was unraveling. She focused in on his words.

"If you recall, that one bullet was intended for me," Mr. J said. "But you jumped in the way, causing things to go in a much different direction than anticipated. You didn't see, Harley. Didn't grab at the connections. Wasn't it a little too convenient that your old chum was at the hospital that night? A surgeon in his office, way past his normal operating hours, at the exact moment he would be needed by you? I never believe in coincidence. It was obvious, even then, that it was planned."

"But who shot me?" She asked.

Mr. J' gave an over the top gesture and pointed to the corpse of Geoffrey. "The butler, of course, an easy conclusion. Got a graze off on him before he fled, nicked the upper arm. And his identity was confirmed by a simple test."

And his words took her back to the first night she woke up. When he clapped Geoffrey on the arm before dismissing him. The wince of the butler, not because the gesture was hard but because the wound underneath was still fresh. Mr. J must have felt the bandages under the uniform. How did he see so much? She felt simultaneously amazed and deceived all at once. A wink from him, as if he was reading her mind, before he trained his gaze on Thomas. "His service records listed him as a marksman. The shot was too perfect to have been done by anyone else, except perhaps yourself, Tommy. You didn't want to put yourself in the line of fire so early, though, so you used him instead."

"Geoffrey's been with the Elliots for years," Harley commented.

"Why hire a butler when you can get a bodyguard and a trainer as well? Who do you think dear Tommy learned his skills from?" It made sense to her. Mr. J continued. "And with you as the victim, instead of me, he had to change his strategy. Since I wasn't laid up with a bullet wound, he had to adjust, sending out the copy cat to keep me distracted. It worked for a couple of days, I'll admit. And it gave him more time to insinuate himself into your life again."

Harley looked over to Thomas. He was stoic, as before, but she could see the shame burning in his eyes. And it wasn't the shame of being exposed. No, it was the shame of knowing what he had done. He actually regretted it. Harley had hoped to see that in him, but it still threw her for a loop, now beginning to understand what he had done, how he had violated her life. Again, her emotions were all over the board, unable to settle on one thing to feel.

"Dr. Elliot knew I'd have him researched," Mr. J said. "He just didn't know how good Livingston could be. I called you with a name, Peyton Riley. Your old patient. The records were easy access at Arkham and Tommy knew we'd find out about her. Giving you the perfect moment of sharing as you learned about his past, a connection to interest you." Again, his eyes moved to Thomas. "Little Peyton kept a diary, though. Writing down all your dirty secrets, if someone knew what to look for. And that's why she had to die."

"You had her killed?" She asked Thomas, not entirely sure why she was shocked by that revelation.

Mr. J answered. "Of course he did. And he used his old mentor, Jonathan Crane, to do it. Forced her into such fear that she killed herself. The autopsy was a nice read."

"Wait, what? His old mentor?" Harley never knew that Jonathan and Thomas knew each other.

Mr. J smiled. "All you doctors-to-be have to do a psych rotation, don't you? I'm sure you can guess which newly minted doctor was on staff during Thomas' turn."

"Crane," she whispered.

"Crane," Mr. J repeated. "I'm sure the future Dr. Elliot charmed him during that time, made the old quack enough of an ally to request a favor later on. And that favor was Peyton Riley. Tommy didn't visit her, no. The records were altered and Livingston discovered the discrepancy. Easy enough to get the staff to change the log when you're a top donor. Good work on that, Harley." Mr. J laughed at his reference to the Wayne Manor house-warming party where she got Thomas to agree to fund Arkham. "But nothing's free. He had to break Crane out in return. And to sweeten the deal, Tommy offered him the one thing he wanted. You."

"But if you didn't break Crane out, how did you get his journal?" Harley asked, digesting all he had told her so far.

"Got curious, went back to the old stomping grounds," he shrugged. "Arkham's easy to get into after an escape. All you need is a police uniform and you have full access. Living across from the guy, I knew his stash location. Found the girl's diary tucked away with his journal. Interesting reads on both accounts. Made it all so clear."

Mr. J leaned back against the ambulance door, looking back over at Thomas who hadn't moved in inch since the story began. "But I think the icing on the cake was the medicine. Lacing her antibiotics with dopamine to increase her emotional reactions? Some nice formulas in Crane's book along those lines."

His eyes turned towards Harley again. "I'm sure you wondered why your emotions were so erratic, why you weren't reacting to things as you normally would. He pulled the same trick your dead boyfriend did. Boosting your dopamine levels so you'd be more susceptible to your id and to your basest needs. Also, ramped up your survival instincts, which is why you reacted strangely when I came by to say hello. He used your volatile emotional state to persuade you that I was the villain." Another laugh as his eyes turned back to Thomas. "When really, it was Dr. Elliot all along, picking away at your subconscious. Should have been a shrink, doc. You have a talent for it."

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Thomas, the feeling of utter betrayal growing. Thinking back, she had been all over the map with her emotions. And after she stopped taking the antibiotics, things seemed less muddy in her head and she was able to control herself more. Just as Guy Kopski had once done to her, Thomas had done the same, wrapping her around his finger. Her conversations with him were the catalyst that made her realize that Mr. J was controlling her. She had gone into his mansion so sure of where she stood, and left Thomas' home wanting to completely change her life. Had he been lacing her IV bag as well? Probably. Had everything been a lie? A manipulation to get her to hate Mr. J? She shook her head, violently, wanting to scream but forcing it back. There was more to the story.

"Then I was kidnapped by Crane. It was all a setup to get inside my head, make me question our relationship even more." Her face turned towards Mr. J. He was nodding to her in encouragement as she worked through the puzzle. "The whole vision I had was designed to work on my doubts. The bindings made me think of being trapped. My nudity was to make me feel more vulnerable." And then she remembered the flash at the end of her hallucination, the green and purple. "And Geoffrey was there to inspire visions of Mr. J in my head."

"All to get you to one goal," he said, with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

"To hate you," she said. "But why? What does Thomas have against you? I can't imagine this was just about getting me away from you. There's got to be something more." Her eyes moved back to Thomas, who just shook his head. He wasn't going to be answering her questions any time soon.

Mr. J watched their exchange before speaking. "Always something more behind the facade. Before we met, I spent some time in the company of Gotham's elite at Harvey Dent's fundraiser. Tommy was also in attendance."

"Yeah, he told me."

"What he didn't tell you was that he had big plans for the night. Livingston was able to track down some interesting movements, purchases, transactions, all by the good doctor. I suppose he had some massive plan to take down Wayne but I don't care enough to figure out what that plan entailed. All that matters is that it all fell apart when I decided to crash the party. How that must have rankled, you, eh Tommy?"

Harley closed her eyes for a moment, letting her mind roll over the information. It really was all about petty revenge. She should have seen it coming, knowing Thomas had a thing for getting even. His father, his mother, Bruce Wayne. Now Mr. J. She felt like an idiot for not catching on earlier, so lost in their friendship and the strength he had been giving her. But it was all just part of the plan. And what disturbed her even more was that Mr. J knew this entire time and said nothing, letting it play out to see where it took her. That hurt her even more. He allowed all this to happen. He could have stopped it but he didn't.

Her eyes opened to take in Mr. J. Only one question remained. "Why?"

"You needed to learn this lesson on your own."

"What lesson?"

But Mr. J turned away from her, not giving her the answer. It was obvious, staring her in the face but she didn't want to admit it to herself. It would mean the end of anything she had once believed. Close her up to the world. And once again, she found herself at a crossroads, a decision to be made. Whether to take Mr. J's path or wallow in dead beliefs. To be one of those who exist, or one of those who lived. Her initial words to Thomas came roaring back. For all she had once said to him, she had only been existing, allowing Mr. J to drag her along by his side. If she took this final step, she would truly be living. Her own entity, free of her bonds. She wouldn't need Mr. J's controlling hand or her own self-doubts. Harley would see the world in a new light and be able to stroll through it with the real truth pervading her mind. Free will was a bitch.

Her decision made, she looked over again at Thomas, this time with true wrath behind her eyes. Her hands began to shake with her internal fury at having been played. At being used by someone she called a friend. "I trusted you. I cared about you. And you used that to twist my life upside down. All for the sake of getting back at Mr. J?" Her words were cold, full of wrath and she watched as his eyes met hers with the same shame she saw before. "I can forgive a lot of things, Thomas. I can forgive the bullet in my gut. I can forgive the deception of Geoffrey. I can forgive trying to split me and Mr. J up. Hell, I can even forgive the whole mess with Crane."

Her eyes narrowed. "What I can't forgive is the way you made me feel. I don't how much of what we shared was real and how much was fake, but obviously, I'm blind when it comes to you." She shook her head, sadly. "You made me believe that I was becoming a better person. That I was freeing myself. That somehow, I was going to be so much more than I had been. You gave me hope."

The angry tears that had been stinging her lids began to fall down her cheeks as she stared at him. Thomas had that look in his eyes as if he wanted to comfort her, but knew that she would never accept that from him ever again. Mr. J fell away from her mind as she gazed at the man who deceived her, the one who laughed at her jokes and understood her. The only person she still called "friend." But real friends didn't do that to each other. They were honest and open. And for the millionth time, her mind went back to a familiar phrase. Mr. J was right. He was always right. Harley was a fool to have believed otherwise.

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, his tone matching her bitter sorrow with his own mourning. He understood what he had lost by doing what he did. "But it wasn't all about revenge. I really wanted to help you make a better life."

Harley looked away from him, her eyes burning with her tears and then took two steps towards Mr. J, blocking Thomas' view of the clown. She met the eyes of her lover, his calculating gaze looking her up and down. But when she spoke, she addressed Thomas. "When I first woke up in your house, Mr. J gave me one instruction. 'Corrupt him,' he told me. He wanted me to dig deep and find the man underneath. To change you into something beautiful."

Her left hand raised to touch the right cheek of Mr. J, stroking along the scar as she continued to speak to Thomas. "I did. I found your core, Thomas, even if I didn't see the truth of what you had planned. And, in the end, I did follow Mr. J's instruction." She craned her head to look back at her friend. "I corrupted you, brought you down to your lowest. I got inside your head and made you do things that you never dreamed you could do, some of it intentional, some of it not. But when all is said and done, I got you to destroy the only two things that mattered to you."

Her eyes dipped down to the corpse of Geoffrey. "I'm sure you didn't intend for his death, only wanted to add fuel to my fire. To make me angry enough to do something about it, having all my plans ruined. You couldn't anticipate what I did. You didn't know about my promise to Mr. J, to kill him if I ever saw him again." Her hand on Mr. J's cheek lightly slapped his flesh, a gesture of affection. "But ignorance is no excuse. You sent him in there." A pained expression crossed Thomas' face. Now she understood why he kept looking at the body bag with such tension in his body. "You are responsible for Geoffrey's death. You destroyed him because of your vengeance. And you destroyed a great relationship between you and I, something that could have turned the world. We could have been great together."

Between their bodies, she felt Mr. J's gun pressed into her right hand. Her head swiveled back to take him in, his eyes boring a hole into her, waiting in anticipation of what she would do. He didn't need to demand anything of her. The decision was already made and they both knew it. As she turned to face Thomas, the pistol in her hand, she smiled, that wild look that she couldn't contain. Thomas' hands raised in defense. She felt Mr. J's hands rest on her shoulders, encouraging and guiding. His energy fueled her own, letting her anger settle into something smooth, lasting, delicious. She felt at peace for the first time in years.

"I hope your revenge was worth it," Harley said.

Then she squeezed the trigger, letting the bullets fly towards her best friend as her laughter echoed through the warehouse. His eyes widened at her words and then the rounds slammed into Thomas' chest, over and over, until she was out of ammo and his body hit the ground. Tossing the empty gun on the floor, Harley turned in place and wrapped her arms around Mr. J's neck. She pulled him down to her, her lips pressing harshly against his in a forgotten embrace. Her passion igniting as she pressed her body against his. The usual taste of greasepaint was gone, replaced by his natural flesh. She savored every swipe of her tongue, every moan against his lips. The way his arms pulled her close, as if he missed her as much as she missed him. Harley felt like she had come home.

After some time, Mr. J pulled back. "He's gone," Mr. J said.

Harley didn't need to turn around to know that Thomas had slunk away, bruised and beaten, the bullets lodged harmlessly in his body armor. "I know."

"You didn't intend to kill him."

Harley mused on this for a second. "No. He tricked me. He used me. He proved that no matter how much I want to believe otherwise, everyone in the world is exactly the same. They're all liars and users and everyone, in the end, will always give in to their selfish desires, regardless of who it hurts." She met the eyes of her lover, as she expressed the lesson he had taught her. "So why should I go for the kill when his pain is so much better?"

And Mr. J smiled wider than she had ever seen before. "Class dismissed."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: What a twist! Seriously, though, I hope this all made sense to you. Nothing is scarier to an author than writing a plot like this where I have to explain how it all happened. But if you go back through the story, you'll see the hints dropped throughout that not all was as it seemed with Thomas Elliot. I truly hope you all enjoyed it. And there will be one more chapter to wrap up loose ends. Thank you all for sticking around! **


	19. True Freedom

Chapter Nineteen: True Freedom

The skyline of Gotham was a beautiful thing to behold at nighttime. Harley was perched on the rooftop of an old industrial building in the Narrows, staring across the river to the dazzling lights of the heart of the city, lost in her thoughts. It had been several days since the revelation of Thomas' plans and still she couldn't shake the feeling of sorrow that flooded her every time she thought of him. His loss in her life was immeasurable, the friend who was able to look past her flaws without exploiting them. And yet, that was exactly what he did, pushing her further and further until she was primed to kill the man she loved.

She sat on the ledge of the building, her feet dangling over the side of the roof. While the air still held a chill, she embraced every goosebump that wracked her body, wanting so badly to turn back the clock to a simpler time. But there was no way to do that. Only to move forward. Mr. J had been less demanding of her recently, as if he now trusted her to keep her own form of control. There were no threats of the basement or cuffing her to the bed. She was her own person and he recognized that. But it didn't mean he let go of his hold over her entirely. She would forever be linked to him.

A squeak caught her attention as the door to the roof opened. The footsteps on the gravel, paced evenly, told her exactly who was sneaking up on her. Harley didn't turn her head to confirm, merely kept her eyes on the skyline. The person stopped behind her, slightly to the left, but not joining her on the ledge. For some time, they said nothing, the sounds of the Narrows floating upwards towards them and basking them in the noises of the filth below. But Harley could still hear herself breathing, deep and calm, despite the tension that filled her.

After awhile, she finally spoke, never turning her eyes towards him. "This is one of the best views of downtown. The way Gotham wants to be. Not the dirty hole that we're standing in."

"You and I both know that it's just a mask, though," he said. Her friend, her betrayer, her weakness, her strength. Thomas Elliot. Hush.

"The lights twinkle like fireflies," Harley said. "I wish I could catch them in my hands." She dug into her pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "But they would burn like the sun, I think." Lighting the cigarette, she watched as the smoke drifted away from her, until it disappeared into nothing.

"Maybe, but you'd enjoy it all the same," he commented.

"I would."

The conversation came as easy as any other they had in the past. It felt good to be in the moment again with him, even if it was to be their last. Silence fell over them once again but it wasn't uncomfortable. As Harley took another drag from her cigarette, she thought of all those little things that couldn't have been faked. The way their eyes met when they joked around. The food he'd order for her, always knowing her favorites. The little touches, glances. It couldn't have all been an act to play on her emotions. There was something real about it all. She couldn't deny it.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Thomas asked.

"Your death wouldn't have brought me any joy," she said before sucking in more smoke. "And a part of me just couldn't. Couldn't bear to see you die. Stupid, I know, after what you did, but my heart has always ruled my actions."

"There's nothing wrong with that." He placed a hand on her shoulder.

For the first time, Harley turned her head to look up at him. No costume for him this time. Just his red hair shining in the neon light of the bar across the street, his eyes darkened in the dim lighting. A crisp, white, button-down shirt that carried his strong scent to her nostrils. His expression held the same sadness that she felt. Bridges burned, connections gone. But he needed this final exchange as much as she did. No Mr. J meant more honesty between them.

"It wasn't all a lie," he said, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"You used me." And the heartbreak of his betrayal could be heard in her voice.

"I did," he acknowledged, almost choking on the words. "But as time passed and I got to know you better, it became about more than mere revenge. There's something special about you. You don't flinch when faced with the horrible truth. I respect that."

"Why didn't you just give up, then?" Harley asked. "Ignore your petty schemes? You claim so much but you still pressed until there was nothing but dust. Do you even realize the price you paid? I think it might be more than you can bear."

"I know." He sorrow became more tangible. "I paid a heavy cost. But I don't regret it."

She smiled sadly, turning her head away. "Yes, you do. I remember when you asked me if I had any regrets. You wanted a mirror to reflect yourself but I couldn't be that for you. I never could. Even back then, you questioned what you were doing. Questioned if you should continue. You chose the wrong path." She shook her head. "Because the truth is you bared your soul to me in ways you didn't expect to. No amount of lies you tell yourself can ever take that away. Some part of you will always be inside of me."

"And visa versa."

"But I can live with that knowledge. Can you?" She chuckled softly to herself, despite her grief. "And the sad reality is, I would have done it for you, had you been honest. I would have killed Mr. J. You gave me so much hope that maybe my life could be better. I could be free and perhaps I could find some balance inside myself. Be happy with who I am." Harley felt the tears stinging at her eyelashes.

"You still can," he insisted. "And I still want to be there for you. Could we just start over?"

Another one of his fantasies. A fairytale for lost souls. But for a moment, she lost herself inside of it. A life where she lived with her ginger prince, finding contentment in his warm eyes. Someone who understood her, could peel back her layers and dig deep to console her. In some ways, Thomas knew her better than Mr. J. But the simple truth was, Thomas could know every detail about her and still not truly get her. That was something only Mr. J could do. Thomas would never comprehend her darkest desires, the need for blood and passion. He was too reserved for that. He might be a force to be reckoned with in Gotham, but he wasn't even close to the same wavelength as her and Mr. J.

"Wishful thinking. Too much history between us, Thomas." Harley laughed to herself. "I'm capable of many things, but I can't simply wipe the slate clean of your deception."

"Let me make it up to you. God, how I wish I could tell you all the things I couldn't before. I want you to know how I feel," he said. He was trying to play on her emotions, knowing full well the key to her mind, but it was too calculated. She knew his bag of tricks all too well.

The cigarette between her fingers burned against her skin, forgotten and now turned to ash. Tossing it off the roof, she saw the metaphor for what it was. Thomas' warmth was so close to her, his hand still resting on her shoulder. The temptation to lean back into him was strong. But she was clinging to a dead memory. Unlike him, she didn't live in regret. Harley may have felt foolish for believing, but she wouldn't blame herself for falling for it. For caring about her friend. She would move on. It would be an easy adaption for her. But she wasn't sure if he ever would.

"And I love you too," she said, responding to his unspoken confession. "But that doesn't change anything between us."

His hand dropped from her shoulder. "So, what now?"

"You go back to your world and I go back to mine."

"And if our paths intersect?" he asked.

Harley smiled widely, already feeling her mind slipping away from him. The influence of Thomas was gone. Lost to the wind like ephemera. It never took her long to get over anything. And while he would be a part of her forever, her emotions were fueled by something much more powerful than friendship or love. She could no longer be swayed by him. Her mind set on the one thing that really mattered in her life. The one man. The only man. Her Mr. J and his beautiful symphony of terror.

"The tide's coming in," she said, watching the downtown skyline as it burst into color, flame sparkling in the distance. The boom took a second to reach her ears, the sound of the real Mr. J back at work. The explosion was breathtaking, as most of his displays were. She wished she could have been present to feel the heat against her skin. But she had a different job.

Turning her head back to Thomas, she grinned as his eyes widened, taking in the destruction before his eyes. "You get a free pass this time, on account of our former friendship. But if you ever take a run at Mr. J again, I will let the monster inside of me loose. And you will beg for mercy before the end."

Thomas nodded, accepting her statement with a serious expression. "Then it's over."

"It's over," Harley agreed.

He leaned down and pressed a light kiss against her cheek. A goodbye. When he pulled back, she swore she could see tears glistening in his eyes. But that wasn't like Thomas to shed tears over loss. He was too internal for such a display. It must have been her imagination. He turned on his heel and walked away from her, his shoes crunching against the gravel once more. As far as endings went, it was bittersweet. They both lived, but they would never be able to rekindle the fire between them. Harley watched until he disappeared behind the rooftop door.

Then, she sighed, turning her head back to the skyline of Gotham, a cloud of smoke rising from the ashes of Mr. J's latest amusement. Thomas' earlier words came back to her about Gotham. "Just a mask? Time to remove it, then."

Her cell phone rang. It was time to go to work.

* * *

><p>While the news and police followed his work, they didn't see the endgame. Always slow to the punch. Fooled by the shiny distraction. They thought him the source of all the madness, his explosions, his laughter. He played the role of the flashy one. Idiots, as blind as the Bat. They didn't see. They never saw. And GCN ate up everything he did with a huge fork and a Cheshire grin. They might never make the connection. The explosion was merely the sideshow. The main attraction was taking place over the river with his Harley.<p>

A merry chase around town, pulling the police away from their sources. Another call. Another claim that he wanted the Commissioner to come clean with the truth. The Dent situation. But Mr. J was far past that. Dent could live on the hero for all he cared. But it was a nice card to play when pulling the rug out from under them. Diversionary tactics. Worked like a charm for his girl's emergency surgery. And they all fell for it time and time again.

"Think the Barbie will fuck it up again?" Doc asked from the driver's seat.

Mr. J smiled. The police were following the flashy purple car driven by his temporary henchmen, not yet realizing that their target had slipped away into a mundane Ford Taurus. Eventually, when the bodies were looked at, they'd take a look at the security footage to see the truth. A wave to the traffic camera before jumping into the passenger's seat. This was the final run of the Taurus before ditching it far away from the house. Livingston already had a new car prepared for them and was shutting down tracking across the city, just in case the police got wise. Doubtful but caution made the journey smooth. Harley's work was too important.

"This time, I asked for wholesale slaughter. She'll be fine providing she makes it out alive," Mr. J mused.

"Why now?" The constant cigarette in Doc's hand was smoking up the car, obscuring vision.

That would be the question, wouldn't it? The same question the police would be asking when they discovered the corpses in the Narrows. Ample opportunity but never acted upon. But he needed his girl to be ready for it. To stop looking at the world through rose colored glasses. To see the users, the schemers. She was never shy about killing. She would have done it before if he asked, not truly understanding the purpose. But the betrayal of her friend sent her into the spiral he needed. He wanted her to appreciate why she was doing it. Now, she would.

Somewhere across town, Harley was entering a room. A secret room with secret plans. The secret alliances to be forged. They thought to keep the location from him but his eyes were always watching. She would show herself, be welcomed because of prior relationships. And then she would listen. Get the dirt, the plans, see how each of those secret men played their hands. How they each wanted to rule Gotham. She would finish what he started. By morning, there would be chaos. By morning, the underground would rip itself apart. By morning, every head of every mafia family would be dead. It would be glorious.

"Why not?" Mr. J said in response.

Several hours later, he got the call. Her twinkling voice full of fire and amusement filled his ears with tales of her exciting evening of murder. And he was as proud as a father. Little Harley had grown up.

* * *

><p>The weight of his body pressed her further into the bed. It was different this time. She wasn't trapped or under his controlling grip. Her hands were free, her nails digging into his back as he bit harshly into her neck. Smears of his makeup all over her body. The pain created ecstasy inside her body, as much as his frantic thrusting did. It was primal, carnal, real. Her legs wrapped around his torso, pushing back with all her might. His breath smelled of beer and his body held the lingering scent of death. Her skin still reeked of blood. A combination that sent her senses reeling. It seemed the same as always. And still, it was so different.<p>

It wasn't just the freedom afforded her. It was the look in Mr. J's eyes as he stared down at her, as if he was devouring her essence and giving it back all at once. He had never looked at her like that before. Harley thought she had seen everything from him. She had held him as he cried. Felt terror as he turned his death gaze on her. Loved him when he did something unexpected for her. Reveled in the cries of his victims. But this was new. They'd fucked many times before. But this was the first time that they made love.

Harley couldn't help the tears of joy spilling down her face. This was the proof. He was lifting his grasp on her, considering her an equal at last. Mr. J no longer just tolerated her, wanted her around for the hell of it. No, he needed her. Needed his Harley. She could feel it in his gaze, his pumping hips, his tongue licking away her tears. Their dance had changed yet again. She had proven herself to him, became more than just a puppet. And for this one moment, she allowed herself to believe that he loved her as much as she loved him.

Her orgasm caught her completely off guard. She writhed against Mr. J, the pleasure flooding her as she gripped his back as if holding on for dear life. It was powerful, not as earth shattering as the one where she took control, but it was far more beautiful. She tugged down on his head to kiss him, moaning with the sensation until her shuddering subsided.

His thrusting stopped and he peered down at her, a curious expression on his face. "You just came." His voice held disbelief.

"Yeah," she said, catching her breath and wondering why he seemed so surprised. Then it hit her. There was no pain to incite the climax. It came out of nowhere and took her over. There was no pain. None at all. Her face lit up in pure wonder and she smiled at him. "Oh my god!"

Without a word, striking like a cobra, he bit down into her shoulder. She could feel his incisors drawing blood and felt the wave of renewed bliss crawl over her body. Her receptors hadn't changed. The same response as always and yet, she was able to reach her peak without the need for pain. It didn't take long for her to realize why. Love. Her mind sank in the memory of her conversation with Thomas about not being able to love someone that she feared. But when she allowed herself to believe Mr. J loved her back, the fear was gone. It dissipated completely and it sparked a rawness inside of her that she never knew existed. An experience she would never forget.

As she thrashed against him in rapture, he withdrew his mouth, dark red tinting his yellowed teeth as he grinned down at her. "Just testing. Not broken." Then he began to move inside her again.

Harley stretched her arms above her head to grasp the base of the headboard, using it to push back against him. She was too bewildered by her recent experience to concentrate on her own pleasure, so she settled for making his own come quicker. It didn't take long before his eyes darkened and he pressed himself deep inside so she could feel his release. A groan escaped his lips, perhaps her favorite sound from him and she smiled as he collapsed on top of her. Her fingers were about to let go of the headboard when she felt something behind it, something cold, metal.

She tilted her head upwards and tugged on the object, feeling it come loose in her hands. Bringing the small object to eye level, she couldn't help but laugh. The key to the handcuffs on the headboard. This key was how Mr. J freed himself before. "Son a bitch."

Mr. J's head lifted to look at her. When he spotted the key in her hand, he shook his head, rolling off her. "Took you long enough."

"It was here the entire time? I could have freed myself anytime?" Her tone sounded mad but she wasn't in the least. She felt more stupid than anything else for missing it.

A shrug from Mr. J. "Details." He climbed off the bed, heading for the bathroom as she placed the key on the nightstand. He turned on the faucet, splashing water over his face. She watched as the remainder of his makeup disappeared with handful of water. After drying his face with a towel, he looked over to her. "You ever hear about the Stanford Prison Experiment?"

Harley nodded, moving over to her usual place on the bed and rolling on her side to face him. "Yeah. Every psych student has to read about it. Volunteers were assigned as either prisoners or guards. But it got out of hand and they had to stop it. A case study on how vile humanity can be when given an ounce of authority."

He tossed the towel behind him carelessly and climbed into the bed. "I was thinking about conducting my own version of it."

"Complete with shivs and guns, I take it." She had to laugh. "I can see the bloodbath now. Could be fun."

As he settled in, Harley laid her head on his chest, listening to the rumbling of his chest as he spoke. "We'll work on the details in the morning." His breathing, then, deepened. Mr. J was ready for sleep.

The significance of what he just said wasn't lost on her. Including her in his planning. He wanted her input. He had never done that before. She was right. He was seeing her as an equal, as much as he could. He would always be the top dog when it came down to it, but Harley was his alpha bitch and he wouldn't forget it. She smiled against his chest, content with the new revelations of the night. Thomas had given her a gift, even if he didn't know it. She saw the world in a new light because of his actions and Mr. J fostered that belief into existence. It brought them closer together. Harley was born again. And the dance would continue.

She pulled away to look down at his closed eyes. "Goodnight, Mr. J," she said, planting a light kiss on his lips.

Grumbling, he pushed her away, clearly annoyed by her actions. "Go to sleep, crazy woman."

With a smile, she lay back on her pillow, her eyes staring at cracks in the ceiling. Yes, the dance would always continue for them. Back and forth. And she would glide with him, happily, as the city burned around them. Silently, she thanked Thomas. He showed her both the beautiful and ugly sides of the world. And her former friend revealed something even more important to her. He made her realize who she truly was. No longer lost or defined by others. She was Harley Quinn. She didn't need to be anything else.

"I'm not crazy," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I'm free." And she meant every word.

* * *

><p>END<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well that's it folks. My apologies for the delay on this final chapter and any mistakes within. I've been having problems with my hands recently that make it hard to type but I fought through it to make sure you had closure. **

**I want to thank everyone for reading this and I truly hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope each of you can take a moment to let me know what you thought of this story in a review. Feedback is great to help improve my writing for future stories. **

**As for the future of Harley and Mr. J, there will likely be a third story to this series at some point. But for now, I'll be working on "Angels", my Crane fic. Again, thank you all for your support! Cheers!**

**Auri**


	20. Update from the Author

Hello everyone!

I realized today that I had a lot of story followers on here who may not have me favorited/followed as an author. As a result, you may not know that there is a new story in my Harley/Joker "Exquisite Agony" series called _Absolution_. This takes place approx. three months after the events in _Corruption_. As usual, it is dark, twisted, and nothing is ever as it seems. While some old faces will return, there are definitely going to be some new faces from comic canon, updated to fit with the Nolanverse. So, please feel free to check out _Absolution _when you have a moment.

Updates will be slower than I did for _Corruption _due to my insane busy work schedule, but this story will have an ending. And again, I wanted to thank all of you for your kind reviews of my first two stories. They have been an inspiration that has kept me striving to improve my writing even more. I couldn't do this without all your support. I appreciate it more than you know.

To those who are already following my new story (or those who don't care), my sincerest apologies for wasting your time with this story alert.

Cheers!

Auriellis


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